7 Thunderbirds Are Go: Portal
by Math Girl
Summary: When Tycho Reeve's latest invention is sabotaged at its first test, International Rescue must race in to pick up the pieces, and find the missing test subjects, a pair of old friends.
1. Chapter 1

'Allo. Back for another round, seems like. Be most honored, if you came along. Edited!

 **Portal**

 **1**

 _Kyoto, Japan, at the crowded and busy Yamato Space Port, midafternoon-_

Tycho Reeves was a man with something to prove. Thin, intense and deeply driven. The hyper-train disaster had damaged his unbroken string of engineering successes and involved him in several quite lengthy legal battles. Problematic, if he was to score the funding he required to realize his goal of clean, cheap, instantaneous transport for anyone, anywhere.

That high-speed, vacuum-tube hyper train had been just the beginning. A foretaste of bigger and better to come. Unfortunately, it had also gone quite publicly wrong, necessitating the involvement of his self-proclaimed 'Biggest Fan', _Doctor_ Hiram Hackenbacker. (Doctor of _what?_ From which institution, precisely? D*mned if Reeves could figure it out. There was clearly a secret of some sort, behind all that.)

Now, he was here in Kyoto's elegant spaceport, at the newly-installed and faintly humming transmission disk. There were reporters, imperial banners and security drones everywhere, together with his two 'goodwill ambassadors', Buddy and Ellie Pendergast. Needing something fresh and exciting, themselves, the married explorers had jumped at the chance to be his first public test subjects.

"Mr. Reeves," said lovely Mariko Aino, Japan's most famous speaker of news, "For our honored viewers, please, how does your transmitter function?"

Tycho forced himself to keep smiling, despite the fact that he'd explained the concept literally _hundreds_ of times before. Bespectacled, with gelled dark hair and brown eyes, he was quite young for so gifted a thinker.

"Of course," he replied, over the crackle and hum of darting video drones, the muted rumble of spaceships, and the tinny clatter of "public meeting-space" music. "The basic idea is really quite simple. Since the entire universe began as a tiny, Planck-sized particle, and expanded from there, it's essentially all entangled."

"Which could be said to mean…?" the raven-haired reporter probed, smiling and bowing as if she had any clue what he was talking about. Tycho forced himself to be patient, to slow down and explain.

"Meaning that every region in the 4D field equations of spacetime is still connected to every other. With enough energy, the right maths, and a bit of renormalization, I can have you step on this disk, _here…"_ He half-turned to indicate his prototype transmitter, adding, "…press a few buttons, and watch you materialise _there,_ at the other disk, down in Pacifica City."

The reporter's dark-almond eyes widened, for dramatic effect. Like Tycho, himself, and all of the crowd, she was formally dressed.

"Instantly?" she wondered, one hand touching her mouth

Fighting the urge to roll his brown eyes, Tycho kept smiling.

"Exactly, Miss Aino. As I said, _this_ ," he waved his hand through the air at polite, smiling people, sparking drones and robot-porter traffic, "…is all just your brain's interpretation of multi-dimensional field equations. Every location in spacetime can be represented by a constantly shifting number matrix. All I do is manipulate those figures to change your 'address'. Simple."

Mariko smiled bravely, still nodding and bowing, occasionally.

"My apologies... And your system has been tested, Mr. Reeves?"

"Of course," Tycho grumped, remembering. "I've already sent several inanimate objects, my cat, and an android replica of myself, to the receiver in Pacifica City. All arrived safely… although the cat threw up."

"And now, it's gonna be _us,_ right, Luv?" Buddy cut in, grinning broadly as he bounced around the big, domed room on his blade-foot and meat-leg; knit red cap bobbing like a toy.

 _"Yeah!"_ Ellie exulted. "The elusive Meg awaits!" She wasn't as tall as her boisterous husband, but several times as energetic, with blonde hair and a loud, hooting voice. "And then, it's on to Jupiter, by instant bloomin' transmission!"

"Right-O, light of me life!" crowed Buddy, high-fiving his wife. Tycho sighed deeply, then managed to smile again.

"Yes, indeed. So, if we can get on with the demonstration of a transport system which… I humbly admit… is surely going to change the world, let's have Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast…"

"That's Buddy, t' you, Tyker!" boomed the explorer, draping an affectionate arm over Reeve's thin shoulders. "I'm only "Mr. Pendergast" in court, or with me bill collectors, eh?"

Tycho's smile froze. His expression, caught on camera, quite clearly pled _'Help…me.'_ But Ellie just kissed his hollow-eyed, sleep-deprived face.

"Let's do it!" she urged, throwing an arm around Tycho and her husband, both. "No one gets famous sittin' at home, right?"

Wasn't that quick or so simple, though. First, the local dignitaries had to say a few words, then the spaceport safety team went over his equipment with microscopes and evidence bags… as if they knew what they were looking at. Next, Kyoto's geothermal energy system had to re-route power to Tycho's device, giving claws and teeth to his numbers.

Finally, with cameras rolling, and audience quietly applauding in the background, they got started. Buddy and Ellie held hands, stepped onto that foot-high, glowing neutronium disk, and bowed like a couple of actors.

Tycho was at his control panel, which featured genuine dials, buttons, switches and a mare's nest of wiring, rather than VR hand-waving crap. He'd never much liked what he couldn't see, touch or calculate, so most of his gear was quite physical.

"Ready?" he asked the pair on the disk, once he'd set the parameters for Pacifica City, some five-hundred miles distant, on the stygian sea floor.

"Right as rain, Tyker! Ready f'r th' fastest trip a couple of Aussies 've ever made! Faster 'n _me,_ gettin' quit of th' mother-in-law!" At which Ellie whooped and playfully slapped him.

Tycho silently begged whatever forces might be listening, that the odious pair would not ever spawn. Then, with no flourish at all, he jammed the red button.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, in the ring, at around the same time-_

As Brains… formerly Yudisthir Rama-Singh… did not legally exist, arranging a marriage permit was child's play. With John's help, and Eos', he'd reset his status as "only child", "no surviving relatives" and "citizen in good standing". Naturally, he was granted permission to marry, and have a child with his wife, Vanessa Moffat Hackenbacker.

It had been three months since their wedding… two-and-a-half since they'd returned from their Indian honeymoon… and Moffy was pregnant. This mattered to Brains a great deal, from whom so much had been violently stripped. Family, identity, academic achievements, all gone. But now, on Tracy Island, he was starting, again; with trusted friends, a vital job, and a lovely wife. Soon enough, a new baby, as well. Little Fermat or Ada, depending on gender.

 _However,_ Moffy was experiencing what might be termed "hormonal mood-swings", meaning that Brains spent a great deal of time in the lab, these days. Just then, he was taking a break from work, watching on holovid as his hero, Tycho Reeves, made the first-ever public test of his revolutionary matter-transmission system.

"W- Watch, Max," he whispered, gazing at the great man's image with reverence that bordered on worship. "Dr. Reeves h- has a grasp of, ah… of q- quantum field theory th- that leaves everyone else in the d- dust!"

"Or, bored out of their minds!" sniped Alan, on his way to the training room lift. "Seriously, who can check his math, or be sure he's not just making crap up?"

Hackenbacker took off his glasses and polished their lenses on the sleeve of his shirt, a thing he always did, when deeply stressed or hunting for words.

"S- So might a flea speak of, ah… of a l-lion," Brains admonished Alan, whose turn it was to train the so-called 'New Crew'. "N- No one else can even, ah… even k- keep up!"

Alan shrugged. He was bursting through another wild growth spurt; eating whatever came to hand. An apple with peanut butter, just now.

"If you say so, Dude. Sounds like a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo, to me," he said, crunching loudly.

Brains jammed his glasses back on, and shoved them firmly up the bridge of his nose.

"T- To the uninitiated, all of m- math is, ah… is m- mumbo jumbo, Alan, but you shall v- very soon eat your words, for c- clean, free, instant t- transport is coming to take th- the world by storm!"

Well… he got the 'by storm' part right, anyway.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In a cloaked vessel, just over the Kyoto Spaceport's high guidance tower-_

The press and public were not the only ones interested in the potential of Tycho Reeves' instant transport disks. A pair of young thugs, still on the lam from WorldGov authorities, were watching, as well. At least, Havok was paying attention. Her brother… big, hulking Fuse… was off at the mini-fridge, again; being not much interested in anything on telly, besides sport.

Half of the view-screen had been set to display the live telecast, while the rest showed Kyoto's glittering skyline and all of that ship traffic. Tapping metal-gloved fingers upon the arm of her chair, Havok mused,

"With tech like that in 'and, we'd be able t' reach in an' pinch 'Is Nibs right out of 'is cell."

Fuse mumbled something in reply, mouth full of cricket-club sandwich and fizzy drink. Pretending that he'd agreed with her, the slim, foxy-faced girl went on speaking.

"All we've got t' do is interfere a bit, see… then, they carts Reeves off t' 'is Majesty's guest 'ouse, and evacuates the area. Next, we moves in, quick as you please, an' snatches th' gear. Slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am. Simple."

Fuse ambled over, scratching at his cornrows with a stylus, whilst stuffing more sandwich into his gob.

"Urn-urf huf?" he enquired, affably enough. Not about lasses or footie, this time, most likely, and food he'd already acquired. Therefore,

"We gets paid when we've used th' pinched gear t' rescue ol' 'Oodwink."

Or, worst came to worse, they could always sell it. Criminal gangs the world over would trade their silver-haired grannies for a way past guards, locks and alarm systems.

"Owf?" asked her brother, spraying bits of meat, mustard and bread all over that beeping, humming cockpit. Briefly, Havok fantasized about working alone. But then, who'd look after Paul?

"Don't talk wi' yer mouth full, you bloody great oaf!" snapped Havok, mopping food off her seat and purple armour. "It ain't sanitary!"

"Sorry, Evie," he grinned, swallowing a half-chewed lump big enough to choke a mule. "I said: 'Ow we gonna interfere? Go in shootin' and flingin' bombs, Chaos Crew-style?"

Havok thought it over, then shook her head, no. she had shortish, white-streaked brown hair and hard blue eyes. Looked much older than her nineteen years, she did. But life was tough, and you made the choices you had to; for yourself, and those you'd been left with.

"Best not," she decided. "We wants t' scare 'em all off, not attract more feds. Place is crawlin' with law, already. Last thing we need is the ruddy GDF, or effin' International Rescue. No… quiet's th' word, Fuse."

Smiling that cream-fed, bird-snatching smile of hers, Havok drawled,

"What we need is an earthquake t' shut off their power, Sib… and you're just the lad t' provide one."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, in other news, John Tracy had got himself dragged off by Penny, again, for one of her charity soirees. He did not anticipate a peaceful night.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, guys. Thank you for reading. Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow, Susan, Creative Girl, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl, many thanks for your kind-hearted reviews. Responses forthwith! Newly again more edited.

 **2**

 _FAB-1, plunging through lightless depths, somewhat earlier-_

As always during these trips, the atmosphere inside of her vehicle crackled with muted resentment and tension. To put it mildly, John was unhappy, and the nearer they drew to that trench-side city, the surlier he became. _Looked_ nothing short of spectacular, of course, with his Titian hair and sea-green eyes, athletic figure and sharply tailored white tuxedo. Yet…

"You might _smile,_ you know," she admonished, adjusting his crooked black bowtie. "We aren't attending your execution, John."

He shot her a withering look, leaning further away on that smooth leather car seat.

"And, you could take 'no' for an answer, Penny. I _hate_ this crap. _All_ of it. The suit, the parties, the weird food…"

"It's a tuxedo, Dear," she corrected gently, hiding a smile. At least he was venting, now, rather than quietly seething.

"…the not knowing what I'm supposed to say, or which fork to use…"

"Eos has downloaded a full set of dining instructions, and urbane, witty repartee, as well as perfect dance muscle-memory."

 _"...And_ dancing. I especially hate dancing with rich old ladies. Makes me feel like a d*mn wh… public escort," he amended, no doubt prompted by Eos's scripted responses. Through the window behind him, Penny glimpsed strange, pale fish with dangling lights, and long trailing streamers of mucus. Parker was driving, naturally, while Sherbert lay curled up asleep on John's lap.

 _"Do_ be reasonable, Dear. You know perfectly well that my guests attend these functions, and donate so well, in hopes of espying the fabled John Tracy," she reminded him, lightly patting one of his tensely clenched hands. He muttered something barbaricly American, but did not move away, prompting Penelope to retrieve one of those dreadful beers he enjoyed so much, from the limousine's backseat refrigerator.

"Thank you," John growled, beginning to relax (as he always did, eventually). Didn't wait for a bottle opener, but used his fist and the edge of the privacy screen to pop off its top. Finished the vile brew without surfacing once for breath.

"How long is all this going to take?" John demanded, slipping from denial to negotiation, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Scott was far less trouble, all things considered. Penny kept her tone light as she said,

"Oh… not more than seven or eight hours, I should think. There will be a twenty-thousand-credit per plate luncheon, of course… followed by the arrival of Mr. Reeves' transmitted passengers… and then a glorious, undersea ball. All of the _best_ people shall attend, including (it is rumored) His Majesty."

But, John had heard nothing after that time-estimate.

"Eight _hours?"_ he repeated, numb and shocked as an accident victim. More beer, Penny decided.

There was a fine line between drunk and relaxed, with John Tracy, and Penny had long ago learnt it. Yes, he was mulishly stubborn and difficult; cross as two sticks at the start of these ventures. And, _yes…_ his participation was vital. Very much worth all the delicate handling. Her donors, friends and peers could not get enough of the tall, awkward IR 'mystery man', and would pay staggering fees to see and talk with him. Also, he was a dab hand at resolving sudden emergencies.

"It shall seem to fly by, I assure you, Dear Boy."

John heaved a gusty sigh, accepted another cold beer, and fell to petting Bertie, who responded with a yawn and luxurious wriggle. Wondered how, exactly, he let himself get talked into these Godawful things…

"Pacifica City, straight up ahead, Milady, Mister John," Parker broke in over the speaker. The huge, seafloor trench and force-domed city came into view, like a strange sunrise in cold, rushing darkness.

"Very good, Parker. Thank you," Penny responded, craning past John for a better look.

Roughly the size of shattered and barren Long Island, Pacifica City was part research facility, part playground for the famous and blindingly wealthy. Penelope's friends, in other words. Two beers weren't enough.

"Confidence, Dear," she said to him, apparently sensing his mood shift.

"I'm plenty confident," John groused, handing Bertie back to his elegantly dressed owner. "With a rifle, a baseball, a horse, plane, or my station, I've got all _kinds_ of confidence. It's just…" he gestured at the swarms of brilliantly-lit personal subs, the wavering floodlights and vast, glowing dome. "… _this._ Social stuff. I'm just no good at it."

Penelope smiled and leaned across to kiss his cheek.

"You'll do splendidly, Dear Boy. Besides, think of all those poor, needy dinosaurs. Now, chin up, and all that. Parker is pulling us into the private reception bay. Expect the off one or two paparazzi."

FAB-1 curved around in a flare of bubbles and luminous deep-water animals, to glide from cold, crushing darkness to the city's brightly-lit entry lock. Had to pass through the main hatch and no less than five force gates to reach the VIP arrival bay, which had been designed to resemble an undersea grotto.

Pour-stone walls, seaweed curtains and haphazardly scattered gems made the place look like an abandoned pirate's cave. There were even a few artful skeletons.

The pink limo/ aircar/ submarine bobbed to the arrival bay's surface, then docked at a long, red-coral jetty. Their surroundings looked amazingly real, down to the flashes of full moon and ragged cloud glimpsed through "cracks" in the sea-cave "roof". Almost, you'd have believed yourself back above water.

Parker sprang out of the car, first; as comfortable tying up to a pier as he was pulling into the drive at Creighton-Ward Manor. Once he'd bowed and opened the door, Penny handed up Bertie, who gave the patient driver a sleepy nip.

Next, Lady Penelope extended a slim, be-ringed hand, allowing herself to be drawn forth into a second dawn of flashing camera lights. The crowd called her name over and over, begging for smiles or selfies.

Penny remained serene, knowing that she looked perfectly stunning in her tea-length gown of rose silk and pink diamonds. With her deliberately mussed up-do, flushed cheeks and smudged lipstick, she would appear to have already had a very nice time, indeed.

"Lady Penelope! Over here!" called the crowd, waving cellphones and photo-shoot pictures. "This way, Lady P! Give us a smile, for the audience!"

Then, John came forth. To his credit, he managed a smile. And somehow, that slight air of discomfort… that unicorn-emerging-from-the-wood awkwardness… merely added to his charm.

Putting on the expected show, Penelope reached for John as though he were her date, in fact, rather than simply a stunningly attractive prop. She kissed his cheek while a galactic storm of flashes went off, and that mob of reporters and onlookers gawked.

"Smile, Dear," she prompted, tiptoeing up to speak into his right ear. "It is only a crowd. Things shall be rather quieter, within."

Right. Not the first time he'd done this sort of thing, but John would cheerfully have taken his chances plunging back into the water and swimming for the surface, rather than face a herd of grabby society females and their preening dates.

Lunch went better, because Eos' light programming worked, giving him all the right reflexes and plenty to say. Still didn't look forward to dancing, though, and mostly alternated between fending off the Duchess' under-table advances, and staring out through the dome.

The view was incredible. Part of the reason he came to these things was because Penelope always arranged new and intriguing locations to hold them. Also, the causes were pretty much worthwhile. Who wanted a lot of sick, homeless dinosaurs? The way Penny put it, he was all that stood between triceratops and complete re-extinction. That scenery, though…

The grim basalt trench outside plunged like the Grand Canyon, lit by cleverly placed spotlights and submarine drones. Meanwhile, strange, blind creatures drifted past, together with giant sharks enough to delight the hearts of a dozen crazy explorers. Certainly kept _him_ riveted.

Penny stood up at one point, and tapped her fork gently against the side of her crystal champagne flute, quieting the buzz of laughter and chit-chat. Nodding to her assembled guests, she gave them a short, heart-felt speech in thanks for their generosity. Behind her, temporarily blocking the view from outside, a holovid screen displayed scenes of frolicking saurians.

"…and thank you, most especially, for finding room in your hearts for these poor creatures, dredged up from the mists of time and extinction as weapons, now abandoned. Were it not for _you,_ Ladies and Gentlemen… Your Grace and… most especially… Your Majesty, they should all perish miserably of disease and starvation. Of course, you have already contributed greatly to my little cause, just by purchasing admission, but I ask you to open your hearts and your wallets yet again, my friends, for creatures who cannot speak to beseech your aid. Creatures like my Wild Life Fund mascot, Bitsy."

Then, at Penelope's signal, Parker came through the dining room doors, leading a young parasaurolophus on a halter and lead. Almost as big as the driver, the blue-mottled dinosaur had a graceful, back-sweeping crest, and walked upright (like a chicken, actually). Its eyes were quite wide, and as amber as Gordon's. Its forelimbs bore little hooves on each finger, and it appeared to be chewing cud. Smelt funny; sort of a mix between new-mown hay and badly tanned leather.

Penny had to have brought it down earlier, John figured, because there was no way he would have missed _that,_ no matter how much medicinal beer he'd downed.

The assembled diners gave a drawn-out gasp and cooing noise, then began to applaud. Already, wallets were gaping, as Bitsy and Parker made their way round the outside of that horseshoe-shaped table, and waiters cleared up the feast. For a mere two-thousand credits, you could buy a fist-sized plug of dinosaur chow (looked like tobacco, smelt like sweet feed) to give Bitsy. Parker took him from one diner to the next, stopping first at a smiling, grey-haired King Denys.

John shook his head, figuring that Penny would make a mint on cuteness, alone. More dinosaur images cascaded onto the screen, as Bitsy made his rounds with Parker. Left a big pile of dinosaur horse-apples on the marble tiled floor, but the wait staff cleaned it all up, looking decidedly strained.

John liked big animals, especially horses. Didn't know what to make of the swan-necked, crested reptile, though, when it finally got 'round to he and Penny. It had a beak, and hundreds of cheek-teeth, plus nostrils that closed up tight, like a camel's.

He rubbed its forehead, at the same between-the-eyes spot that Apple enjoyed. Got a sort of burbling hoot in response, which everyone present laughed at.

"Hey, Fella," John murmured, ignoring everyone else. "What's a nice guy like you doing in high society? You get roped into this mess, too?"

He didn't buy any dinosaur chow, but discovered that saurians enjoy a good scratch, just like horses and dogs. Hide was loose, and pebbled like a football, was all. Warm and sort of thrumming, underneath; like a big, sleepy cat. Breath was a mist of cabbage-y compost.

Anyhow, between one thing and another, it was a much mellower John Tracy who accompanied Penny and her guests to the party's _other_ big spectacle, the televised arrival of Buddy and Ellie Pendergast. Except, that's not quite how things happened.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In the cloaked Chaos Cruiser, hovering low above Kyoto-_

Havok had flown them carefully downward, avoiding buildings, drones and sudden updrafts. There was a mostly-empty carpark near the tower. Meant for government higher-ups, it made the ideal drop point for Fuse. Serene in the distance, Fujiyama meant little to that focused pair. Just another big heap of in-the-way rock.

"Nuthin' fancy, Sib," Havok ordered. "You drops in, starts a few tremors, then waits f'r pickup. Once th' power's out and everyone scarpers, we nips right in and snags th' goods. 'Alf of 'em, anyways. Rest is gonna be submarine work. Got it?"

Her brother nodded seriously, stifling a volcanic belch.

"Got it, Ev. In an' out. No funny stuff." Then he grinned at her, boasting, "Watch me make 'em scream and scurry like mice, 'Avok!"

"Right. Only, make sure yer bleedin' 'arness is on, this time!" she snapped, keying open the Cruiser's drop hatch. "You was d*mn lucky not t' be kilt, last time you went ruddy dive-bombin'!"

He reached out with a big, metal-clad hand and mussed up her short, brownish hair.

"I knows what I'm doin', 'Avok." Backing toward the windy, whistling drop hatch, he added, "I'll 'ave 'em all pissin' their pants, watch me. And, if IR shows up, even better. We owes 'em one, Evie."

Havok snorted, turning back to her flight controls.

"Wotever. Just come back safe. Got enough t' plan, without 'avin t' rescue _your_ sorry arse."

Fuse waved at his sister's armoured back, then leapt straight down out of the drop hatch, bellowing, _"BANZAI!"_ at the top of his lungs. Cracked the pavement on striking the ground below like a purple meteorite. Didn't just hit and smash, though. Triggered.

Just as, above, Tycho Reeves was mashing that button… just as, off in Pacifica City, the toffs was all gathered to welcome their transmitted guests… Fuse sent a powerful electromagnetic pulse into the nearest fault line. And, all of Kyoto moved.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _At just about the same time, inside the huge spaceport-_

Tycho pressed the red button. Machinery crackled and hummed. Power flowed from Kyoto's grid to the transmitter disk. Buddy and Ellie first sparkled like electronic ghosts, then vanished, entirely.

All around the transmitter hub, holo-screens tuned in to the scene in Pacifica City, where the Pendergasts were meant to appear. Only, a sudden wild, bucking tremor shook the earth, before they turned up. Power shut down. Lights flickered and swayed, as the ground rumbled and flexed underfoot. Stressed concrete bent and began to crack, fighting to absorb the tower's drunken sway.

The crowd did not panic or run about. Instead, they followed procedure, going to well-marked safety zones. Tycho would not leave his transmitter, though. The holo-screens had vanished into the aether, but his personal comm link to the tech crew in Pacifica City remained.

"Nothing, Sir!" one of the receiver-crew called out to him, barely audible over the bellow of earthquake and crowd noise. Then, he heard something else; a sudden, shrill scream and thunderous torrent, followed by staticky silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for the reviews, you guys. =) Replies are forthcoming! Edited.

 **3**

 _At nearly the same time, in Monsoon-racked Indonesia-_

Feeling morose, restless and deeply confused, he'd left Tracy Island. Had no desire to help rescue mewling Typicals, and dared not stay in place long enough to lose his temper. Besides, he had pressing errands, elsewhere.

One of the Tracys… Dumbass… had adopted a young Dos Santos. No business of Kane's, really, except that it stirred up odd memories. (And left him with a serious itch to go hunting.) _That_ was why the Mechanic found himself back in rainy, polluted Jakarta, that afternoon, with trouble in mind.

The rain-shrouded island of Java lay like a greenish-dark gem in the heaving sea; the city, itself, a steaming and sparkling encrustation. Scanning in several wavelengths, the big cyborg abandoned his coopted cargo plane in midflight, allowing it to resume normal function. Assumed that the sedated crew would recover, eventually. Their kind always did. He dropped from its opened belly like a rock, free-falling from roaring red-lit vibration, to windy, rain-hammered freedom. Reminded him of space, only noisier. He waited nearly a full ten seconds before cutting on his jetpack, just for the stomach-flip h*ll of it.

Kane-before would have gone in shooting, with a giant hive-ship and a cyclone of savage drones. Kane-now compromised by crashing down through the roof of the local GDF peace station, with only a switch-bladed mantis for company. He fell upon them like a guided missile, smashing loudly through roof and two stories, before crushing a desk and cracking their floor.

Dust, shouts, alarms and the d*mn sprinkler system stirred an already chaotic scene to absolute, yelping frenzy. Uniformed Typicals scurried like panicked rats, grabbing after their useless weapons.

Kane rose from his landing-crouch, kicking aside the smashed metal desk and two injured peace officers. Rain hissed and detritus rattled all around him, through the hole he'd punched in their building. Just overhead, a long bank of fluorescent lights hung spinning and sparking from what was left of the ruptured ceiling. Steel bars had crashed down over windows and street doors, while a web of laser-sights crisscrossed the room, making the rain seem to hover and sparkle. The Mechanic paid no attention at all.

Instead, looking around at those shaking GDF peace keepers, he grunted,

"Knock-knock."

Weapons were out and off safety, all of them pointed at _him._ Kane could have spread their terror like peanut-butter… but the scared little vermin did not run away.

"Stand down," the massive cyborg commanded. "Your toys won't fire, unless I allow them to, and if I was here with hostile intent, you'd already be dead."

One of them, a slim, short male with buzz-cut brown hair, stepped forward.

"What do you want here, Mechanic?" he quavered. The ranking insect, apparently. Worth communicating with, Kane supposed, if only to conserve ammo and charge.

"There is a former market plaza in the old town," said the cyborg prince, shifting position suddenly, just for the fun of watching their trigger fingers clench. "I intend to search it, looking for… something of value. I will require an escort."

He scanned the room, hard amber eyes settling on the garrison's lone female.

"Her. She will come along, to ensure that the squatters don't get in my way."

Their officer stepped between Kane and the female, giving cover to those dragging aside their broken limbed comrades.

"Lasangah's a rookie. Leave her alone," the little man told him.

Kane cocked his tattooed head, studying the GDF captain like a prize bull regarding a small, yapping dog.

"You cannot prevent me from doing or taking whatever I want, Rodent," he rumbled, very close to the end of his limited patience.

Said the storm-dampened female, suddenly,

"Are you going to hurt anyone, at the mall?" Her hair was concealed by some sort of pale blue scarf, and her face was free of 'makeup'. She had skin the right color, but eyes that were flat, Typical brown. No circuits, no chrome. Kane decided to answer her, anyhow.

"I am searching for two mongrel children," he told her. "A pair of undocumented orphans."

"They belong in the Children's Home," fretted the officer, still moving to block Kane's view. No trouble at all, for one who could see in ultraviolet, infrared and x-ray.

"They belong with _me,_ and I'm through talking," the Mechanic informed them, folding muscular arms across his chest with a loud, rattling clash. "I have told you where I am going, and why. I have said that I require an escort. If you choose not to listen, and vermin are exterminated, then _you_ are to blame for it, not me." Perched on his boulder-like shoulder, the mantis-drone flexed its blades and rattled in agreement.

Captain French straightened up to his full five-seven height. Deep inside, he was terrified. Worse yet, he knew that the armoured behemoth standing arrogantly before him could sense every bit of that fear. That somehow… in some half-glimpsed nightmare past… this monster had killed him. Correction: this WorldGov _pardoned_ monster.

"We'll both go," the captain announced, after clearing his throat. "But I want your word that no harm comes to those kids." _Who were probably hungry, abused and already learning to steal._ Outside, sirens were shrieking nearer like maddened, lost women.

"What does my 'word' mean to _you,_ Cockroach?" Kane snorted. "And how could you stop me from breaking it, if given?"

Again, French cleared his throat, about to respond. But then Lieutenant Lasangah said, in a quiet voice that shook very little,

"Because you came here, first. Because you bothered to state your wishes, rather than simply kidnapping one of us. I think you will give us your word, and keep it, as you did before, with the Tracys."

Probably, he should have just shot her, right then and there. Would have been much less trouble, in the long run… but Kane held his temper and his fire. Diverted thousands of credits from WorldBank to GDF Local, for roof repairs, even. Why not? Wasn't _his_ money…. And it made up for blasting another hole through their ceiling, as he set off for Jakarta's darkest, most notorious slum.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, on a golden and quiet late afternoon by the telly-_

All over the house, coffee and soda spurted from mouths, as Brains, Gordon and Scott vaulted up off their seats and onto their feet. A strident chorus of shouts tore the warm air. Then, Colonel Tracy's voice came over the comm, loudest of all.

"Island Base from Thunderbird 5! Brains, I'm picking up a big energy surge from Asia Pacific Net. Seismic disturbance and…"

"P- Power loss," Brains finished for him, spinning the holo-globe's pickup from regular TV to scanning mode. Gordon had been upstairs, watching this latest Pendergast adventure on his phone, while Charlie practiced writing.

"Where are Buddy and Ellie?" he called down, taking the stairs three at a time. "Have they shown up at the receiving station, yet? What happened?"

Not long from the beach, he was still rather salty and tousled; wearing yellow swim trunks and a faded red tee-shirt. His little boy kept up by cheating, just freezing everyone else whilst he scrambled forward to join them. With him was his favourite toy, a plaid biodroid rabbit he'd nicknamed Scruff.

Scott had been out on the balcony, watching the news from a shaded lounge chair, drink in hand. Now, he burst into the house, snapping,

"Pacifica City's gone offline! No comm, no icon. Can't reach Penny or John, either. Brains, what's going on?!"

With Virgil and Grandma away on a resupply trip, and John off "socializing", they were critically short-handed. Even Max was performing double duty, taking some shifts at the desk, when things were slow.

Brains took off and polished his glasses, then did it again, thinking hard about both of those questions.

"I c- cannot know without, ah… without examining th- the work of Dr. Reeves, but it w- would seem that, ah… that s- sudden power loss has interrupted the, ah… the t- transmission signal at a c- critical stage, perhaps causing d- damage to, ah… to P- Pacifica City."

"Where a _re_ they?" Gordon repeated tightly, stepping directly in front of the engineer. "That signal had to go somewhere, Brains. _Find it._ " The Pendergasts were his friends, and Charlie's nother-more-other adopted uncle and aunt.

Hackenbacker gave him a very distracted scowl, half turning back to the holo-globe.

"S- Such searches are b- best conducted from, ah… from Th- Thunderbird 5, Gordon."

"I'm working on it," came Jeff's voice, booming loud through the house receivers. He'd been up on the station for two days, now, filling in for John. Had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he and Eos were uneasy partners, at best. Plus, his leave would end, very soon.

"John would have found them, by now," Eos informed them all, with bland, smug regret. _"He_ would also have at least three plans of action at this point… but age is known to wither the cognitive faculties and other... things. Perhaps you would like a nice nap, Colonel? Or a medicinal joint rub?"

They couldn't see Jeff's face, as his transmission was ears-only, but the Colonel's voice had a definite serrated edge as he growled,

"Surprise me. Do something useful, and contact John, then WorldGov. I want complete intel on that earthquake: damage, casualties and epicenter. _Now,_ Eos."

"As you require," she sighed. "Research indicates that the elderly can become quite impatient and disoriented, during a crisis. It is best to simply humour them."

Meanwhile, Scott's face was tensely lock-jawed with _'not-gonna-laugh'_ self-control. Hurriedly cutting off further bickering, he said,

"Gordon, suit up. I'm recalling Virge. We need you in the water, ASA-Now. I'll head for Kyoto, and see what I can find out from Reeves, himself. Dad, you, uh… keep tracing that signal. Kayo's out on patrol, somewhere. Soon as you've got something…"

"I'll send her their coordinates," supplied the Colonel, from orbit.

"It m- may be helpful to, ah… to m- measure that power s- surge, Mr. Tracy," Brains suggested. "Its strength m- may correlate to the P- Pendergasts' distance of, ah… of t- travel."

"Good idea, Brains. I'll get right on it," Jeff responded. Then, turning his attention back to Scott, the Colonel said, "Son, I suggest that you have Thunderbird 2 drop Gordon over Pacifica, then head back around for Kyoto. You may need back up. Something tells me this wasn't an accident."

The pilot nodded. In khaki shorts, mirrored sunglasses and half-open tropical shirt, he looked like a bronzed and muscular tourist.

"Understood, Sir. Will do."

Meanwhile, the lift-chime had sounded. Its big metal doors swished open a few moments later, admitting a noisy Alan, Rigby and New Crew flood. Gordon barely noticed, being busy explaining things to young Charlie. Crouching down, he said,

"I've gotta go, Kiddo, but I'll be back to check your lessons by tomorrow morning. Plus, Grandma's on her way. Be good, no skipping through mealtimes, and take your bath, understand?"

"Yes, sir, Dad. I'll be sooo good."

In hindsight, Charlie's angelic expression and no-fight acceptance should've raised all kinds of red flags, but Gordon was in a hurry. Pulling his son in for a quick hug and top-of-the-head kiss, he started to rise, but got interrupted.

"Scruff, too," said the boy, holding up that plushy plaid biodroid toy (which gave the swimmer a saucy wink). "You gotta kiss Scruff for good luck, Dad."

Obediently, Gordon kissed the rabbit right between its long, plaid-velvet ears, then rose from his crouch.

"See you soon, Big Guy. Hold the fort."

The young time-bender nodded very seriously, standing there in his striped little shirt and tan shorts.

"Yes, sir, Dad. Jus' like you an' Uncle Alan would."

…which should have tipped him off, right there. But, hey, twenty-twenty retro-vid, right? You only see what you want to.

Thunderbird 1 launched less than five minutes later, roaring from her lair beneath that sloshing, white-water pool. Thunderbird 2 was already in the air, having left Port Hedland in a d*mn quick hurry. Only thing Grandma had time to pick up and pay for were two loaves of bread and a package of much-needed socks.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Kyoto, Japan, during a violent, and extremely localized, earthquake-_

Place was a right mess, once he'd done with it. Fuse grinned around at all the chaos, bracing himself against the shuddering, rumbling ground; watching the sway of those tall, slender buildings. Overhead, giant holo-screens flickered and sparked, then went out entirely, dousing Kyoto's constant advert-storm. Fires started. Alarms shrilled and throbbed all around, as shouting officials directed folk to their evac zones. Fuse scowled. His sister would soon be along to collect him… but the channeler wasn't satisfied. Not enough screaming or panic to suit him.

"Used to a little shakin', eh?" he challenged. "Well, let's see 'ow ya likes it when I turns up th' heat."

And with that, the big, armoured villain stomped even harder on the carpark's buckled surface, meaning to unleash hell.


	4. Chapter 4

Hi, guys! It's official Thunderbirds Day! Would have posted this sooner, but it was my turn to cook. Made lasagna. =) Thank you, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Thunderbird Shadow, Minimam, Akimakel, Creative Girl, Susan and Whirl Girl for your very kind reviews. Edits to follow!

 **4**

 _Pacifica City, beside the plunging San Marcos Trench-_

Once just a scientific research station, the big, domed complex had gradually transformed itself into a playground for the bored, beautiful and stupendously wealthy. Science costs money, after all, and what better way to pay the bills than by encouraging well-heeled tourists in search of something… different. Exotic.

This meant that the city, which resembled a glass-domed beetle perched on six arching, steel-alloy legs, boasted a fairly large population. At the moment, eight-hundred-plus regulars, six VIPs, four lapdogs and a juvenile dinosaur were down at the bottom of the ocean, and in peril of their lives.

That afternoon, the paying guests and reporters had gathered in a big, ornate ballroom. Twenty people clustered around Tycho Reeves' newly installed matter transmission disk, waiting for the triumphant reappearance of Buddy and Ellie Pendergast. His Majesty, the Right Royal King Denys I… Anastasia, Grand Duchess of Prussia and the Rhine… and Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward sat in the first row (naturally) with their various bodyguards and John Tracy, son of the fabled Colonel. Also present was a teenaged American film and music star named Libby Wentworth, her nervous young date, and a roving herd of bloodthirsty newshounds. Floating holo-screens and camera drones zipped along beneath a high-paneled ivory ceiling, keeping transmission and receiver sites in constant contact.

A party atmosphere had reigned, because the matter transmission system was about to make Pacifica City as widely accessible as London or Ulan Bator. Up on those hovering screens, they could see Buddy and Ellie stepping onto the disk, back in distant Kyoto… then Tycho Reeves pressing that glowing red button (with no style or panache, whatsoever). What should have come next, was a flash of light and dramatic fanfare, as the transmitted signal coalesced into two grinning explorers.

Instead, something went badly wrong in Japan. The power first choked, and then surged wildly, causing the signal to stray. Only, the reception disk was still primed for delivery, still "searching". When the expected signal did not arrive on time, something else filled the vacuum _._

A roaring torrent of icy cold seawater and three-quarters of a very unfortunate megalodon were transferred into the chamber in place of Buddy and Ellie. That high-pressure water didn't just fountain into the ballroom, it _blasted,_ triggering all of the city's flood gates and hull-breech alarms.

Screaming people were swept under and tumbled around, striking sea-life and cascading furniture. The fierce, sudden cold was like a hammer-blow, the pressure intense and crushing. Worse, the entire trench-side structure began to buckle, as earthquake and added weight stressed its shuddering limbs.

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward was descended from a very long line of warrior-aristocrats; men and women who'd picked up their swords to defend Britain, when the Romans had deserted them to face the darkness, alone. She did not panic, any more than her ancestors had, when faced with rampaging Viking invaders.

Someone reached out to seize her hand, there in the cold, swirling darkness. John, she fancied. Well accustomed to finding his way without 'up' or 'down' to guide him, the astronaut wasn't confused, now. His wrist comm blinked repeatedly, making a light for others to follow, as he stroked for the ballroom's paneled ceiling, with Penny in tow.

Penelope's head broke surface between a splintered, muck-strewn chandelier, and the saw-toothed maw and sandpaper hide of a dead giant shark. Distant alarms were ringing, distorted by hundreds of tons of dark water. Sherbert, thank God, was away in the dog park, being tended by nannies, together with Bitsy. As for the others…

Penny glimpsed John by the faint red light of his wrist comm; wet through, hair slicked down, and shivering slightly. Parker sputtered up, next, dragging his half-conscious Majesty.

"Duchess… still… below…" Parker gasped, between wheezing coughs.

John wrenched off his white tuxedo jacket, which featured a water-proof heating unit. He'd been going to hand it to Penny, but hesitated, torn between Scott's woman and the fading King.

"Share it," he decided, shoving the gadget-packet coat at Lady Penelope. Their bubble of air was a scant eight inches high, just big enough to clear their mouths, with the occasional gulp of chill, gore-tinged brine thrown in. "Going after the rest."

He and Parker both, actually; while Penny held the King's lolling head up, and did her best to keep him warm. The monarch's personal bodyguard appeared a few moments later, some dragging others. Unable to see a thing, down below, they'd simply latched onto whomever they'd bumped. Occasional twitches from that dead partial shark set them all to bobbing and crashing like frigid bath-toys.

Up on the surface or out in space, Jaeger would simply have accelerated John in order to speak with him. Underwater, that was impossible, as the stuff would lock up like cement at high speeds. John couldn't talk with the AI, directly, down here... but he could follow sparkles of light to a target, so that was the unspoken plan. He soon found the Duchess trapped in a very small bubble of rapidly fouling air, underneath one of the transmitter consoles.

"Dear boy," she gasped, upon seeing his face by reddish-dim comm glow. "Dear… d- dear boy."

Anastasia was hypoxic and close to freezing, with light brown hair plastered down to her thin, pallid cheeks. Teeth were chattering, faintly.

"Deep breath, Your Grace," he told her, pulling the middle-aged lady as close as she'd wanted to be, at lunch. "Just go limp, and let me do the work."

She managed a faint smile, then, and kissed him right on the lips. He let her. Then, back down into the water with only his comm and a few sparkles from Jaeger to lead him up to the airspace. The duchess weighed more than Penny had, but didn't panic on going under; just clung tight, her fingers tangled in the billowing fabric of his shirt.

John swam steadily, lungs burning, until he got them up to that crowded airspace, rising past a forest of slow-kicking legs and the cold, flat eye of a dead shark. Passed her off to one of the bodyguards, who looked like he still had some go.

"Talk to her…" John gasped. "Keep her awake." Because _sh*t_ , it was cold! He could see his own breath misting pale in that dank, smelly air.

"Y- yes, Sir," the guard responded, though he was older than John. "She'll b- be aces, Sir, my word on it."

Between them, John and Parker retrieved most of the audience, reporters and technicians, but their trapped air wouldn't last forever. Worse, that insidious, deep-water cold was already claiming a few of the weaker ones.

Then the singer, Libby, started a quavering song; a very old, badly translated work by the 'Beatles', called 'Octopuses Garden', or some such. A few people cheered and then joined in, once they'd got the words right. It was a very scratchy, coughing chorus, but it kept spirits high, as John, Parker and Penny turned their thoughts to getting out.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Simultaneously, and quite far away-_

The undirected signal might have wound up anywhere… or nowhere, at all, simply dissipating into the aether. Only, the Survivor chose to act. After the first alarm, urged by his host, he'd left Captain Rigby. Taking a long chance on this wet, plant-filled globe, Survivor spread himself out, forming a sort of conductive matrix, grounded here and there at sites with unused antennas and lots of space. Not a perfect solution, as these places were few and far between; abandoned, decrepit and dangerous, all of them.

Buddy and Ellie Pendergast had stepped onto the disk in Kyoto, Japan. They'd bowed, holding hands, before a politely applauding crowd. Then… nothing. Utter blankness. They'd been blown out; snuffed like a couple of candles. No sense of movement or travel, no passage of time at all, that they could feel. Just sudden re-existence, in some sort of cold, drafty tunnel, with briefly sparking and flickering pale-green overhead lights.

Footing was uncertain, Buddy noticed; being composed of fallen concrete, rusted metal and… well, bones. Human, some of them. Hard on the old blade foot, but at least he wasn't alone. He squeezed his wife's hand, got a firm _'I love you'_ triple press in return. He breathed easier, then. Come whatever, he could face it all, with Ellie beside him.

"Don't look much like Pacificker City, Love o' me life," he ventured, fighting the urge to sneeze. The air smelt of rust, wreckage and ancient decay.

"No worries, Mate," she told him. "You know how them shonky adverts make places look fair corker, an' then, when you actually gets there, they're bleak as Gabba?"

Buddie nodded, looking around him at twisted metal rails, broken tile and faded paint. Overhead, a gutted loudspeaker crackled and sparked with some sort of fading green energy.

"Might be this _is_ Packie," she continued, meaning Pacifica City.

Buddy reached up to scratch his head beneath that bright red beanie.

"Dunno, Chookie… musta taken them pics with a long lens an' a filter," he mused, adding. "Don't see no crowd o' reporters, either. Where 'd they get off to, then?"

Something caught their eye, as they turned to look around the sagging, blocked tunnel. A rust-flecked metal sign hung there, marked: **Times Sq-42 St Station**.

Buddy and Ellie Pendergast gaped for a long moment, peering through murky half-light at that creaking, slow-swinging sign. It dangled by one corner, from a rusted steel bolt set in cracked and badly-stained concrete. Then, as comprehension dawned, they whirled to look at each other, reaching for camera, mic and makeup kit. Jumping up to high five like a pair of daft teens, the pair whooped,

"Crikey! The elusive New York sewer croc! New season starts _now!"_


	5. Chapter 5

Hi, you guys. =) Guess it's about time for that heart-bruising _"they don't belong to me"_ disclaimer. Thank you, Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow, Bow Echo, Creative Girl and Whirl Girl, for reading and reviewing. It's nice, having a conversation about the characters we all love.

 **5**

 _Thunderbird 1, high above the rolling Pacific, late afternoon-_

Scott wasn't alone in the cockpit, but he waited until he had the all-clear from Base and was up at cruising height, before facing his passenger, Captain Wayne Rigby. Lawyer, Marine, unkillable alien-host and WorldGov spy, the square-jawed blond raised every hackle Scott Tracy possessed… which meant that the pilot had stayed very soft-spoken. Very polite, until now.

Once his Bird had settled at 40,000 feet, with a good, fast tailwind, and her autopilot engaged, Scott cleared his throat. (Had to do it twice, actually, because the first time, Rigby didn't hear him over the rocket plane's cabin whine and muted throb.

Eventually, the other man looked up from his work. He'd been filing an electronic brief for the Colonel, on behalf of two of his sons, Scott and John, who wished to evade active duty. Tough case, because they _had_ been sworn in; taking the oath to defend and uphold, etc.… And commissioned officers were always subject to recall, even after retirement. Death might get you off, but only in special cases. On the other hand, there was no pressing global emergency that absolutely required a fighter pilot and astronaut/ systems analyst. Also, there were recent precedents, such as 2063 Preston vs. United Terra, that clearly showed…

A sudden noise made Rigby glance up from the online brief. Noticed immediately that the dark-haired pilot was craned around in his seat, looking sternly backward. So far, they'd not said two words to each other beyond the usual _'strap-in, flotation device and vomit-bag'_ instructions. The IR pilot had to have something important in mind, Wayne figured. So, he saved the work, cleared his device screen and sat back a bit.

"Something we missed in the preflight briefing?" he hazarded, reaching up to remove a pair of wireframe glasses that he no longer really needed; not since his 'guest' had moved in and corrected all of his physical issues. He wore them out of habit, and because a lawyer ought to look professional, darn it.

Scott gave him a very direct, rock-drilling stare and said, over the music of wind and engines,

"What makes you think you're good enough for my sister?"

Rigby blinked. Could've gotten angry… Scott seemed to be after a fight… but instead became formal, saying,

"I could answer that question any number of ways, Mr. Tracy. I assume that you've faced something similar, from Sir Hugh Creighton-Ward…?" Scott's sudden flush, his thinned mouth, spoke volumes. Touchy subject, evidently. And, just maybe, something they had in common. Moving on, Wayne said, "I'll give you the best response I know, which is to say that Kayo thinks I'm good enough, and what better qualifications can I offer? I could talk about my law degree, my service record, or the fact that my people have owned land in the Virginia Territories for over a hundred years… but I doubt you want to hear all that."

"Not what I'm after," Scott answered tightly, his blue eyes terribly grim, fierce and cold.

Right. What, then? Wayne thought of his own little sister, Amelia, and of what he'd expect from some upstart, no-good, girl-in-every-port Marine jock who'd dared to push in like he owned the place. Rigby glanced out through the Bird's canopy, then looked back over at Scott, saying,

"You want to hear that she's safe with me… that I won't play around and just dump her. That I won't make her cry, or break her heart. Marines have a reputation, Mr. Tracy, and believe me, I've heard it all. But Kayo… Tanusha, well… she's something special; beautiful, powerful, precious. If… _if…_ she was ever to give me a real chance with her… not just flirting, I mean… Well, I'd be the luckiest man alive. But, that's up to your sister, Mr. Tracy. Not you, and not me."

Scott had begun to relax by slow degrees, listening to Rigby talk about Kayo. Yeah, the man was an effing _lawyer_. He could make anything sound wholesome as chocolate-chip pancakes, but some part of Scott was beginning to trust him. A little.

"Call me Scott," he said, stiffly.

The glasses went on again, as Rigby settled back into legal mode.

"You're a client, Sir. Until this case is settled between your father and the world government, I'd rather remain professional. But… thank you. The offer means a lot."

Scott nodded, but he didn't smile. There was still part two of his little test, after all.

"Yeah, well… let's see how you feel about this family after a few missions. We work hard, Captain Rigby, and sometimes it gets very intense. I'm headed for Kyoto, and the woman I love might be drowning right now, at the bottom of the d*mn Pacific."

Rigby winced.

"Your brother's there, too, Mr. Tracy. My _other_ client. I'm assuming that between them, Ms. Creighton-Ward, Mr. Parker and your brother can handle most anything. As they say where I'm from: cheat death and leave him smiling over the bargain he got."

Wanted to clasp the pilot's shoulder, but didn't do it. Conflict of interest on multiple levels, getting too close to a Tracy. Well… maybe _one_ of them.

"I'm sure you're right, Captain," said Scott, moving back around in his seat to face forward, again. They would reach Japan in twelve minutes, so he began the process of switching back to manual flight mode. Never felt better than he did when making love or flying a plane. Sort of a toss-up, which one was better. Depended on mood and circumstance, maybe.

His heads-up display showed the Japanese island chain from several angles, with red concentric circles marking that sudden seismic disturbance. Kind of odd, because there was no scheduled fault de-stressing, today. There shouldn't have been any earthquake activity, there, unless…

"John… I mean, Dad?"

"Fire away, Son," his father replied, sounding harassed.

"No one's found Havok or Fuse, yet, have they?"

Momentary silence followed, as the Colonel checked his facts with the GDF database. Outside, meanwhile, the lowering sun struck spangles from the wavetops. Then,

"They're still at large, according to WorldGov. You think they might have caused this mess?"

Scott nodded, although their contact was audio, only.

"I think it's a possibility, Sir. Have you gotten through to Reeves, yet?"

"In process," his father responded.

Scott would have probed further, but then his wrist comm lit up, on John's frequency. The pilot's heart took a giant, galloping leap as he slapped the comm's face saying,

"Hey, Buddy. Tell me something good."

The reply was tapped in Morse code, and nearly made Scott turn his Bird around, right then and there:

 _'Alive… trapped water… getting out… Pen safe… loves you.'_

Scott Tracy's fists curled tight on his flight controls as he took a moment to regain control of himself. Got it together enough to fire back,

 _'Understood… be safe… love her too.'_

And, God, wanted to be there. Only, duty wouldn't let him. Instead of rushing to help the woman he loved, he had to find Dr. Disaster, again, and maybe square off with a pair of brutal, enhanced criminals. Sometimes, life hurt, but you had to keep going, anyhow.

"Take care, Buddy," he whispered, as Thunderbird 1 began her approach. "Get her out of there, safe."

His father had more to say, as did Brains, but Scott was listening with only half of his mind, and none of his heart. Must've been on subconscious autopilot, himself, because he got clearance from Kyoto air-net, plus permission to conduct rescue operations, without being aware that he'd done it. Funnily enough, it was Virgil's voice and holographic image that dragged him back to the here and now. His raven-haired brother looked busy, and very concerned.

"Thunderbird 1 from Thunderbird 2. Scott, I've just picked Gordon up, and we're headed out to Pacifica City. Once Fishstick's down, I'll…"

"No," Scott snapped, as he lined up with a mostly abandoned carpark conveniently near the Kyoto Space Port tower. "Cancel previous order, Virge. You're to stay on site, and provide any help that Gordon needs with Pacifica City. I, uh... heard from John," he added.

"They're okay?" Asked his brother, starting forward a bit in his seat and fighting to keep the strain from his voice.

"So far, so good… but I need you on site. Rigby's here, with his little friend. We've got things covered, Virge. Trust me."

…Of course, that was before he landed in Kyoto, and well before Gordon discovered the stowaway.


	6. Chapter 6

Hiya! A late one, with edits to follow. Many thanks for reading and reviewing; I am most grateful. Freshly edited! =)

 **6**

 _Jakarta, Indonesia, at approximately the same time-_

Kane jet-packed from the damaged Peace Station to that derelict shopping centre, flying through a wild, monsoon rainstorm. The two officers followed in one of their slow and barely functional transports. A number of flashing news drones attempted to dart close and record his passage, but the Mechanic simply ordered them off. Nothing metal or electronic (besides that Tracy battle-AI) could defy his command.

Jakarta's terrain rolled past in a half-seen rush of mountains, steaming jungle, muddy brown rivers, buildings and rain. The sagging grey sky was free of traffic because Kane willed it so, and because the Typicals had warned their own kind to stay back.

His translucent environment shielding was up; a reflexive response to stormy conditions. Water in small doses was required for biological "meatware" upkeep. In larger amounts, it was nothing but trouble.

In any case, having to file no flight plan and seek no permission, the Mechanic reached his goal in scant minutes. Like a missile, he shot through mist and cloud to reach the former Grand Central Mall, in old town. That stained and rust-streaked concrete structure triggered odd sensations, as he cut airspeed. As though he'd been there before, and done something major. Irrevocable. _Hunh._

Kane could sense power flowing beneath the old mall, being tapped by the vermin inside, like fleas were said to drain creatures without subsonic deterrents. Might have been a good place for a stronghold, had the city not been so very nearby.

Whatever. He altered his jetpack's angle and fuel mix reflexively, such that his course changed from fast, level flight, to a slower, more shallow descent. The rain's hammering assault changed along with his motion, becoming less violent. Wind dropped, as well, causing the cyborg's sensors to register a spike in temperature. 32.71 degrees Celsius, with a background of hissing rain, low thunder and vermin noise all competing for his attention.

Scotland was better, the cyborg decided. Easier to process. Shrugging the matter off, he arrowed straight down to the decaying commerce park's roof. Sodden birds and clattering pterosaurs scattered at his approach, warned by his ultrasound fear-broadcast, to make way for a Lord of Machines.

He landed with a slight, jarring thump, in a tense ready crouch. Scanned his surroundings in every frequency, too, because always, everywhere, there was threat of attack. Even his sisters had got to be watched, just as the Mother of Cyborgs had to watch _him._ Nothing present but reptiles and clamoring birds, though. Secure enough, for the moment.

Kane had come down in about three inches of feather-and-guano mucked water, his target-lock active and seeking. Now he rose, still scanning hard (though the rain interfered, somewhat). The Peace Officer transport was not far behind (23.724 klicks, and closing), broadcasting its ID like a mindless, chattering toy. He could hear its engine, and sense the two life forms within.

No matter; they could come, or not, as they chose. He'd done the "right thing". End of problem. Ignoring the whistling transport, Kane looked around himself, this time seeking an entrance to all the crime and squalor, below. Found one, then jet-packed over a grubby skylight and landed again, simply ripping the roof-access door off its corroded hinges. Metal squealed and concrete shattered, spraying detritus all over the rooftop. Kane had no use for stairs, or regular hand-operated doors, but the Typicals depended on them. He would have thrown the thing aside, but those two vermin officers were in the way. That's why he just heaved the big, rusted portal over the edge, rather than throwing it sideways. He heard it land a few seconds later, ringing and clattering all the way down.

That done, Kane went below, descending from one rusted landing to the next with short bursts of his jetpack. The officers had to run to keep up, which he found rather funny. Not as funny as the looks on their faces when he'd crashed through their station ceiling, but still worth scanning and keeping.

The humanoid scum who dwelt in the mall were smart enough to keep out of his way, shutting themselves into their wood and plastic-scrap shelters; as if _that,_ or their pitiful weapons, could keep them safe. At the ground floor, Kane halted, and tapped his orange-brown chest armour. He'd settled to the cracked tile and rubble, beside a long-defunct central fountain, now brimming with trash. All around were the gutted remains of old stores, some with their names still written above. High overhead, that rain-hammered skylight provided some wavery, greenish illumination. All that he had to work with, as the whimpering vermin had doused all of their bulbs. His infrared scans showed them quite plainly; huddled there, hugging their illegal offspring and stolen goods.

In response to Kane's tap, his mantis drone had detached itself from his armour again. This time, at a gesture from the Mechanic, it sprouted a pair of crystalline beetle's wings. There was a picture in his mind, not terribly clear, of a locked stairwell with two very young children inside; a boy and a girl. He communicated this image to the drone and then said aloud,

"Seek."

His rumbling voice in that rustling, pent-breath quiet seemed unnaturally loud… as did the racing footsteps and panting of the two officers.

"If I killed everyone here," he remarked, without turning around, "Your clamour would waken them."

His altered drone hopped from the Mechanic's left shoulder, buzzing like a giant mosquito. It circled him once, getting accustomed to flight and adding its camera feed to his sensors. Then, feinting first at the two rushing Typicals, Mantis swooped off. Amusing, how they batted and ducked.

"What now?" panted the male peace officer, 'Captain French'. Kane decided to answer him.

"Now, I wait for the drone to locate my quarry," he replied, scratching idly at the join between flesh and machine. Fact of life; meat died, and metal replaced it, always. Eventually, you became more machine than person… but Kane was still young, and about seventy-six percent biological.

Tuning in, he heard increased rustling from one of the nearest plywood and tarp shanties, which smelt of highly spiced vermin food, and some sort of drug. Scans showed several adolescent males reaching for bars of metal and primitive firearms. Laughable. The Mechanic activated his own weapons systems, saying,

"Tell your kind that they are not hidden from me, and that if I see them, I will turn them back into dust."

At his will, bits and scraps were beginning to assemble themselves into fresh drones. Everything; metal gum wrappers, nails, cooking pans and radio sets juddered to life and took shape, forming scorpions, wasps and beetles. Inside of the shacks and boarded-up stores, Kane heard cursing and gasps as even the Typicals' weapons sprouted legs and crept off.

The female officer, 'Lieutenant Lasangah', touched her silver communication badge, setting it to loud-speak. She said, very calmly,

"Please remain still, and do not leave your shelters. You will not be harmed, if you remain where you are. This is not a raid."

Kane snorted, shaking his partly shaved head.

"Simpler, my way. Except for the smell, dead things don't make any trouble."

She actually frowned at him, cocking her kerchiefed head back to stare directly into his eyes.

"You would be lord of nothing but bones?" the blue-uniformed female demanded, small fists planted squarely on slim hips.

Kane shrugged, causing his armour and weapons to rattle.

"I will rule, because that is my destiny, Verm… Officer. _Your_ kind scarcely matters. It is my own, and the other families, that I mean to control." Eventually.

"Why?" she asked, seeming truly puzzled. "What will such dominance win you, but hatred and constant rebellion?"

Lasangah was standing near enough to trigger a number of odd biochemical responses, and their corresponding cybernetic alarms. The Mechanic shook his head again, saying,

"You know _nothing_ , female, and it would be pointless trying to explain myself." Except… part of him _wanted_ her to ask? Would not thoroughly dislike such discussion? He could speak with Beech, and the Tracys' Virgil. Maybe with others, as well?

The male had been mumbling quietly into his own comm badge, which was larger, and gold. Kane could hear him ordering traffic away from the site. Wise.

Then, he received a ping from Mantis. Through its cameras, Kane could see a vaguely familiar green metal door marked: **AUTH Z D PERSO LL O Y**

"Target acquired," he rumbled, ending the conversation. Waste of time, speaking with vermin. They would follow or flee. Perish or live. Made no difference whatever, to Kane. Without a second glance, he triggered his jetpack and lifted back off the ground.

Officer Lasangah was becoming accustomed to the Mechanic's rudeness, his arrogance and abrupt departures. As the cyborg had said, there was no way they could stop him from doing whatever he wanted to. Not even a prolonged, mild earthquake distracted the odd machine-man from his goal.

Sherna stumbled a bit, running along beneath the once-again airborne Mechanic, and his growing horde of buzzing drones. Tough to keep her footing, when the ground underneath began heaving like a woman in labor. Muted screams and cries rose from those flimsy, shuddering lean-tos and tents. Thank God, the quake stopped at last, leaving most of those rattletrap structures intact.

The Mechanic could quite easily have outstripped and left them behind, yet he did not; flying slowly enough to be followed. All of this… the mall, the sounds and smells of terrified folk, the situation… gave rise to strong emotions in Sherna. She had been here before, under terribly different circumstances. She knew it.

From his pale face and rigid posture, Captain French sensed this, as well… but Sherna was too shy to ask his opinion. He was her superior officer and an unrelated male, besides. Except in the line of duty, she had nothing to say.

Instead, the two peace officers ran side by side, sprinting to keep up with the Mechanic (who might have taken the long route, just for the fun of watching them scramble around, hurtling obstacles).

Meanwhile, not far away, a skinny young boy stood inside of his stairwell 'home', with an upraised steel bar and a pounding heart. He might have been seven or eight. No longer remembered that, or his own last name, even. He was called Ilya, and everything in the world that still mattered was here in this small concrete space, with its green-painted stair shelves, dim lighting and wooden false floor.

It was a good home, especially before mom went away; full of clever traps, with top and bottom access blocked off. Someone was coming, though, and none of those tricks would be able to stop him. Somehow, Ilya knew this, and he was both very longing, and scared.

Hungry and nervous, the boy was also sick, carrying all the same viruses everyone else here did. Bruised, too, from near-constant fighting for food and escape. He had light hair and honey-brown eyes, and he very much wanted to cry, but didn't. Wouldn't do any good.

Shivering, Ilya heard someone thump onto the concrete floor outside his door. Somebody big, and real heavy. Under the false floor, Sissy was moving around in her safe place. Ilya could hear her, in there.

"Shh…" he hissed, feeling terror and worry clutch at his heart and snatch away breath. "Quiet, Sissy! You gotta be real good and stay quiet, now!"

The door had a shock trap on it. Only someone that knew the right codes could safely open that door. Or… they could just jerk it right out of the concrete, digging their fingers straight through the metal and ripping it shrieking out of its frame.

Ilya stumbled backward, but only a little, still keeping himself between Sissy's hiding place and… and a giant machine man in scuffed orange armour. All muscles, tattoos and weapons, he took up the whole doorway, as a tide of drones scuttled past him on floor, walls and ceiling. The Mechanic.

Shaking like a penned mouse, Ilya raised his steel bar even higher, and waited. The world had not taught him to trust, or that shelter and safety could last, much less come back for him.

"Ilya," the cyborg commanded, looking at him with hard amber eyes behind some kind of… of cyber-goggles and breath mask, that's what.

"Yes, Sir?" he whispered, making his voice not be squeaky or scared.

"You are done, here. Get her, and make ready to go."

Sissy was trying real hard to push open her door and get that rug off, like she knew who was out there, and why. Ilya let the steel bar drop, some. The Mechanic, his hero, was very large, but the boy could tell there was people behind him. Officers.

"Not going to the kid home," he protested stubbornly, because that's where they took you, and you never came back.

"No," agreed the Mechanic, as Ilya slowly pulled back the pretty-lady rug, and opened Sissy's stuffy, dark safe place. "You have no place with vermin. You belong with me."

The boy had moved himself to sort of shield Sissy, who was laughing and reaching up for him, just like always.

"Be good, okay?" he whispered, scooping her up. Her diaper was wet, again, and her yellow hair sticking in little damp wisps to her dirty small face. Her one flopping leg didn't do nothing, like always.

"Bubby!" she chortled, hugging her brother's thin neck.

"It's okay, Sis… it's okay. I got you."

Then holding all he had left in the whole, awful world, Ilya turned back to face the Mechanic. There were all of these metal bugs flitting and scrabbling into their home, some of them hopping on Sissy and Ilya. Maybe that should have scared him, but instead, it was like they were friends. Even the one with the blades and big, bulgy eyes.

Sissy squealed and laughed as they crawled on her, trying to catch the ones in the air. The Mechanic reached out with one hand and touched her grimy right shoulder, where the flowered pink tank top revealed it. Scratched her. There was a flash of something shiny, and a little tiny dot of blood, but Sis didn't cry. Instead, she stretched both hands out to the massive cyborg, writhing half out of her brother's grip.

Kane looked at the two half-blood children. As polluted as the Tracys, both of them. Like the vermin behind him, a very clear waste of his time. Nevertheless, he took the small girl from her worried sibling. She smacked at his face with popping sounds of her mouth, which he half-understood was a greeting.

Ignoring her happy affection, and those two surprised peace officers, Kane said to the boy,

"That's not a weapon."

Shifting his grip on the tiny, misshapen girl, he concentrated on Ilya's lowered steel bar, summoning parts from all over the mall and French's weak-ass sidearm. In moments, the boy held an actual rifle, responsive to his aura, alone. There was a strap, as well, so the boy could sling it for safe-carry.

"If you mean to defend yourself, you're going to need firepower."

"Yes, Sir," said the boy, beginning to smile. "Thank you."

Ilya, too, was being crawled over by mechs. A good sign. They sensed power, always. It was an uncertain thing, taking on allies. Had worked with the Tracys… but these were just children. Their frailty, and the fact that they mattered, weakened Kane. He ought to have turned them over to those two waiting officers, but did not. Instead,

"I am going into danger," he warned the boy, as the girl tucked a grubby thumb in her mouth and nestled close against him. "To come along is to risk death, or arrest."

"Yes, Sir," said Ilya, proudly shouldering his rifle. "I'm ready. We both are."

Which was how the Mechanic wound up burdening himself with two worthless, half-vermin kids… and how they once more came to be his.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _The Chaos Cruiser, over lovely Kyoto, Japan. Late afternoon-_

Muttering threats and murder, Havok flew lower. Her idiot brother had just been supposed to cause a distraction, not level the whole bleeding _city._ His second stomp had opened a giant crack in the ground, causing sirens to blare, and people to scurry for shelter. Off-shore, the ocean was surging; piling up into high, frenzied waves. Be lucky enough to find more than matchsticks and teeth, once Fuse was through, if she didn't manage to stop the great oaf.

Ornate pavilions and tall buildings rumbled and swayed all around him. The ground itself bellowed and heaved in response to her brother's prodding. He was a channeler, you see. He absorbed electrical energy and poured it into the ground, Fuse did, triggering quakes and tremors. Had an effect on his brain, all that power. Made him not quite right in the head, anymore.

Now, shouting and raging on the crumbling asphalt below, Paul was about to fall into one of his own d*mn fissures. Would've served him right, had she just let him tumble on in, but… well, family, and all that rubbish.

The Chaos Cruiser cut low past that drunkenly swaying space port, bringing the harness and line down where her brother could reach them… except that he was too busy with laughing and jeering to notice. Then, Havok's proximity sensors lit up like a holiday storefront. Whipping her head 'round to check her instruments, she saw International Rescue _and_ the GDF, closing fast.

"D*mn-bloody-nation!" Havok snarled. She had fifteen minutes to save her brother and get the goods.


	7. Chapter 7

Hiya! A little bit more, before work. Thanks, Susan, Thunderbird Shadow and Bow Echo, for reading and reviewing. Hugs! =)

 **7**

 _Near sunset, over Kyoto, Japan, in the speeding Chaos Cruiser-_

Havok kept up a stream of vile curses as she flew. Had to dodge a city-wide network of earthquake-escape 'risers', lifting refugees away from the still-shaking ground. Electronically guided, shaped like silvery dishes, the big, numbered escape craft simply rose in the air like long streams of bubbles, getting hundreds of people at a time up and out of harm's way.

Well... until Fuse disrupted their guidance and power, that is, sending the saucer-shaped floaters crashing into each other, those swaying buildings, or right back down to the ground. Pain in the arse, really, as Havok had to evade drifting escape-craft and hurtling, wind-milling people. Like one of them stupid videogames, only without a d*mn point screen. Shrieking victims rained from the golden-red sky like ripe fruit, some of them striking and draining her Cruiser's shields. _Bugger._

The Yamato Space Port was just ahead, but first, Havok had to collect her daft, shouting brother. Unbelievably, he hadn't left off. Was yet strutting and bellowing challenges at the edge of that rumbling crevice; effing and blinding like some loud, drunken footie-thug.

"C'mon!" roared the dark-skinned young man. "Try some o' _this,_ ya fekkin' gits! I'll do f'r all o' ya! Bring on IR!"

 _Bloody Nora!_ There was no tractor beam or 'grabber' aboard, so the girl risked swooping down low, sharply cutting her speed and de-cloaking the Cruiser. Caught a glimpse of her brother's face; watching him look first surprised, then really happy to see her.

"'Avok!" he boomed. "It's you!"

"Bet y'r sweet arse, it's me," she muttered, dipping down to just about whack his gob with the ruddy harness. "Catch hold, an' let's scarper! Got places t' be, an' tech t' pinch."

Grinning, Fuse leapt for the green-nylon harness and cable. Didn't buckle it on, or nothing; just thrust a big, metal-clad arm through the straps. Was swung at the end of his steel alloy tether like a gleeful wrecking ball, deliberately smashing into fleeing Kyotans and tilted escape risers. Must've killed twenty or thirty more people, just getting up to the tower, which glowed gold in the setting sun.

With all that momentum, the armoured young man was able to crash straight through a perma-glass window, booted feet first. Went skidding inside like a surfer, riding on shattered glass, forcefield and blood. The ground had mostly stopped shaking by that point, but security hadn't come back yet. Better still, most of them cop-bots was still turned off and rolled up tight. Perfect.

Knowing that his sib would soon be along, Fuse took a quick scan of the Yamato Space Port. Seemed like a cake walk on first check, with nothing but gentle alarms, soothing music and holographic evacuation leaders.

"Honored guest!" chirped one of them, appearing in the air before Fuse. Looked like a smiling, bowing black cat with a badge and bell, its left paw upraised in greeting. "Your safety is very important! Please follow me, and I will take you to shelter."

"Piss off," snarled Fuse, bashing a fist through the holographic black cat, which went all pixels for a moment, and then reformed, closer than ever.

"Honored guest!"

Fuse took another swing at the glowing feline, roaring every oath he knew at the top of his lungs. Didn't phase the d*mn thing one bit.

"Your safety is very important!"

The channeler took off running. Anything, to get away from that chirping voice and oozing concern. Only, the cat simply kept reappearing, forcing Fuse to dodge.

As luck would have it, he ran the right way, trailed by his own personal, saucer-eyed nightmare. Like Briggs goin' for the goal, he crashed through a set of double doors, busting full-tilt into a large upper room containing lots of machinery, windows and one little pencil-necked blighter. Professor type, with cracked glasses and holo cat of his own. Tycho Reeves, it was, and wouldn't Evie be chuffed, to get both machine _and_ inventor, at one go?

"Honored guest," chirped the cats, in unison. But,

"'Ullo, Pretty!" grunted Fuse, charging up like a rugby tackle to bash the little geek straight in his pale, frightened face. Broke them glasses in half. "Say g'night, an' get ready t' travel."

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Pacifica City, a few minutes afterward-_

Job one: get out of the water. Job two: find a way clear of that dark, flooded ballroom, without damaging the already listing, domed city. Couldn't just open a hatch, down below, even if they _weren't_ all emergency-locked. The water had stopped surging, but remained bitterly, brass-monkey cold; 39, 38 degrees, at a guess. Tasted like blood and brine. Worse yet, exposed wiring sent a series of painful shocks through the trapped, floating people. Reeves' machine wasn't quite dead, yet.

Meanwhile, darkness, exhaustion and cold had nearly accomplished their work. Even the song had trailed off, with John's red comm light all that they had for illumination. His brothers would be on their way, the astronaut knew. All that he had to do was keep his charges alive, until the rest of the pack arrived.

Thinking: _ti_ _led ceiling… AC and wiring crawlspace… in there, somewhere,_ John reached up over his head to push at the nearest ornately-carved panel. It moved upward, some, but he was pushed down; getting a mouth and nose full of freezing water in the process. Had to cough it all out, then try again. Parker thrashed over to help, giving John a shoulder to brace against.

"Thanks," gasped the astronaut, pushing off and up. The panel clattered, ground against something metal, but moved. Another strong, sudden lunge pushed it completely off its grid, revealing a three-foot-square gap in the ceiling.

One more Parker-braced lunge got him high enough to seize the sides of the opening, and then heave himself upward. He was almost too weary and cold to continue, but the thought of all those scared, drowning people forced John to keep trying. A combination spasm, pull-up, and boost from below got him all the way out of the water. He flopped and squirmed forward, finding himself in a cramped, dusty, chandelier-maintenance crawlspace. Metal bars dug into his belly and chest. Something scraped his hand and drew blood, but... yeah... he'd done it.

Wasn't sure how much room he had, or whether the panel grating would hold his weight (189 pounds, stark naked).

"Jaeger... " John began, but the AI was already acting, sending sparks and shoots of red fire to strengthen that metal-grid ceiling. "Perfekt. Danke..."

Now, for step two: turning the h*ll around. He kept it slow and easy, lest a too-sudden move send him back through, onto somebody else. Very cautiously, John got himself reoriented; twisting in place, so he could reach down through the gap. He picked up the pace, then, because some of the folks below were calling for missing others. To h*ll with caution. People were dying, slipping down into that black, icy water before the person beside them knew what had happened.

Holding tight to one of the steel grid bars, John put his left hand down and took hold of someone. A complicated maneuver followed, next, because he was lying down, and had to hang on tight whilst rolling over, to draw his customer up through the gap, and across his own body. On the bright side, warmed himself up pretty quickly, like that. Had to shove the wet, half conscious man… King Denys… off to one side and keep working.

Penny was next, kissing his ear in the process of getting landed like a fish. Meanwhile, the room's tilt was increasing, putting more strain on that fragile false ceiling. Must've been quicker than it felt, but John would have sworn that it took a full fifteen minutes to get everyone up, out and evenly spaced. He plunged back down, at the end, because Parker had grown too chilly and unresponsive to reach up for his hand, and nobody else had anything left.

That icy, full-body shock was like knives stabbing at every inch of his body. Had one of his brothers been present, John would have joked about certain anatomical attributes trying to crawl back inside of him. It was _that_ cold. Anyhow, he got hold of the fading driver, and pushed him back under the gap.

"Come on, Parker… almost there… not going to… desert Lady P… the king and a duchess… are you?"

The older man mumbled something colorful, but managed to reach up and take a bodyguard's hand. John would have followed, only…

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, up in the cockpit-_

Virgil Tracy altered the tint of his Bird's windows to block out some of that sunset. Not taking his eyes away from the instruments, the big, dark-haired pilot said,

"Gordon, I'm gonna need full schematics on Pacifica City, plus a real-time situation report." (Which Virgil wouldn't have had to ask for, had John been up in Thunderbird 5, where he frickin' belonged.)

"On it," responded Gordon, pulling up space on his data screen. The muscular swimmer specialized in underwater construction and safety. Had visited Pacifica City on several childhood fieldtrips, even.

"Got a blueprint, Virgil, but it's kind of old… there've been some upgrades since Ming Hotels took over the place… and I'm having trouble getting through to anyone onsite."

Gordon looked up, hiding real concern behind a wide, cocky smile.

"Guess they're all busy painting their toenails, or something."

Virgil grunted morosely, pushing the throttle forward another notch. Anything more, and he'd redline the engines.

"Keep trying, Kiddo. Scott says he heard from John, so we know they're alright, in there. Power outage, or something." Sure wished he believed that…

"Thing is," said the aquanaut, glancing at his grim older brother, "I can get down there, but what then? Thunderbird 4 will hold _one_ other passenger. Two, if they're small. How the h*ll do we evacuate eight-hundred people, Virge?"

The pilot chewed his lower lip, briefly. Then,

"We don't. We keep the city stable and upright, until those GDF rescue drones show up. How bad is she listing?"

Gordon examined his technical data, culled from a network of comm-buoy and satellite feeds. Hazel eyes narrowing slightly, he rubbed at his scruffy chin and said,

"Twenty degrees, trench-ward, looks like. Won't know for sure till I'm down there… but those seaquakes are making things worse."

"Uh-huh," Virgil nodded. "How deep is the water, out there? What're we looking at, distance-wise?"

The sun had just about set by then; disappearing at last, with that sudden green flash you sometimes got, in the tropics. They had to hurry. A minute, h*ll, _thirty seconds_ might make all the difference.

"Twelve thousand feet," replied Gordon, after checking his schoolboy memory against datafile fact. Wincing, the swimmer then added, "Sh*t, that's a lot of cable."

Virgil shook his head, not mussing a single, gelled strand.

"She's too heavy, Kiddo. Even if we had enough line, 2 hasn't got the power she'd need to keep a whole city from falling. We're gonna have to think outside the warehouse, here. How many sub-retrieval floats 've you got?"

Gordon considered. The floats were meant to quick-raise a drowned submarine. They were lightning-fast, and _really_ powerful.

"Um… five, but I can get down to the pod and start cooking up more, Virgil."

The handsome pilot smiled at his eager, excited younger brother.

"Looks like we got us a plan, Fish-stick. Get in there, and get busy."

Gordon unstrapped, vaulting out of his seat like a rubber ball.

"I hear and obey, Glorious Leader! Twenty credits says I've got a dozen more floats ready to go, by the time we're on site. Go ahead, _bet_ me."

Grinning, Virgil glanced away from the instrument panel and windows.

"You're on, Tadpole. Twelve new floats by showtime, or you owe me twenty credits… _and_ a case of beer."

Gordon paused in mid-dash to scowl at his older sibling.

"Hey! No fair, upping the ante… but okay, Wise-ass. Case of beer, too. Doesn't matter, 'cause you're gonna lose."

Said Virgil, very quietly, as the aquanaut vanished aft,

"That's what I'm betting on, Kiddo. Make it happen."


	8. Chapter 8

Hi, Guys. Safe from the hurricane, thank God, and life just keeps on doing its thing. :') Prayers for those in Michaël's path. Sorry to be so slow about responding, really do appreciate your reviews, Thunderbird Shadow, Susan, Bow Echo, Creative Girl and Whirl Girl. You guys are much appreciated. Edited.

 **8**

 _Tracy Island, early evening, with a few pale stars peeking shyly out from a deepening sky-_

Yeah. So, 'not-getting-killed-101' had been cancelled for the day, but that didn't mean that Al was off the hook, and out on a mission. Not hardly. Just, instead of leading his group of Thunder-babies… and Piper… through the fiery-building rescue sim, he'd brought them back upstairs and spread them out all over the house.

See, per those new (really strict, annoying) regulations, all of the Tracys had to wear body cams while on duty. Scott and Gordon kind of loved it, actually, because they really liked the attention. Virgil kept forgetting to turn his on, being too busy, y'know… _rescuing people._ Alan hated the way his voice sounded over the cam's dinky mic. No way he was _that_ squeaky… right? And did he legitly have to breathe so hard? Sounded like a nerd at Manga-Con! John had so far been able to duck the whole thing, for tech and security reasons, and because maybe his own integral circuitry kept interfering with the signal.

Whatever, the 'New Crew' could learn more by following a situation in real time, Alan figured, so he plunked them down to watch, as Scott, Virgil and Gordon flew their missions. Had to double up, some. Janice and Cody were down at the ring, shadowing Scott. Josh was hunched over a holo-projector at the dining room table, following Virgil's every flight maneuver, while Caleb was off at the family entertainment centre, snooping through the 24/7 Gordo-vid.

Seriously, his brother wouldn't have turned the thing off, _ever._ Figured that the GDF fully deserved to see that he held the family record for length of pee. (15 seconds longer than Virgil, who'd drunk a full six-pack, first. Being fair, though, Virge could write his name bigger in the snow, and John could put a more elegant flourish on it, as they'd learnt at the last family ski-trip. Kayo 'd declared them all disgusting and stomped off. Chicks, y'know? They just didn't get it.)

Anyways, Pip should've been ghosting somebody, too. Only, her job was pretty much Alan's, and Kayo had stubbornly refused to turn her camera on. No prob at all, because now Al had the perfect excuse to keep her up at the desk with him, watching all of the feeds at once. Good experience, right? Especially once the mission turned crazy, and he had to actually work.

Grandma would have been helping, except she and Zara were off looking for Chip, who'd probably just zipped through bath and bedtime, again. He'd most likely show up in the morning, sleepy and rumpled, any age from three to eleven, trying to look innocent. It was tough to keep up with those skips of his, and hard not to worry when his icon dimmed, and no one could find the little scamp. Again.

Time didn't mean the same thing to Charlie, and trying to make him follow a boring old line was like convincing the Mechanic (for the record, the world's _worst_ frickin' house guest) to walk or use stairs, instead of jetpacking the place to cinders. Right.

Brains was available in holo-form, having gone down to his lab with Professor Moffat. They were trying to follow Dr. Reeves' schematics, and build a teleport pad of their own.

"In th- this way," Brains had told Alan, "If their, ah… their s- signals are still 'out there', I may, ah… may b- be able to draw them here, or r- reconstruct them. Doctor Reeves' designs are flawless. T- Truly elegant. I c- cannot think what went wrong."

He'd been the one to spot the math error in Reeves' hyper-train figures, and though the inventor had been nothing but nice about it at the time, things hadn't gone too well for him, since. Brains felt guilty, Al reckoned; only, he'd been too busy with the new Thunder-wannabes to stick around and find out. Shrugging, the young astronaut had headed off, saying,

"You know smart guys, Brains. They never pick up on the little, nit-noy stuff. John makes that mistake, sometimes. You do, too… and I betcha Tycho just forgot that humans need extra bandwidth, or something. You'll figure it out, just like last time."

Now, he was sharing the desk and those cam feeds with a tall, purple-haired angel who smelled enchantingly of just plain _her._ No perfume. Didn't need it. Just beat up jeans and trainers, a band tee-shirt, olive drab jacket and flower crown. _Plus,_ the cowrie shell necklace, he'd given her. She looked amazing. Better yet, she liked him; squeaky voice, freckles and all.

"How d'you know which one to pay attention to, A-T?" Piper asked him, squinting at those three busy scenes. Alan shrugged.

"I dunno… watch all of them, until something important starts happening, or you hear someone cuss. Not, like, funny cussing. _Cuss_ -cussing. There's a difference."

Piper swung back and forth in her office chair, scuffing her foot on the parquet floor to keep it moving. Sometimes reached out a hand to steady herself on his shoulder, which Alan didn't mind, a bit.

Now she snorted with laughter, saying,

 _"Yeah,_ there's a difference! About ten decibels and three octaves. Especially Scott. So… basically, just listen for wirty-dords, huh?"

Her slim hand was still on Al's shoulder, and so his head just kind of leaned down, letting him press his cheek to the back of her fingers for a minute. Then, he said,

"You gotta watch, too. John's really good at seeing the whole situation, but…" his voice dropped to a whisper, "I think it's driving Dad nuts."

…which Jeff overheard from Thunderbird 5. And, _yes,_ it actually was, thanks mostly to Eos.

To put it mildly, the rebellious AI missed John, and would accept no substitutes. She'd evolved from being overtly insulting, however. Now, Eos was being falsely "helpful".

As Jeff floated there in the brightly-it dome, surrounded by holo-screen data and rapid-fire images, everything suddenly altered. The alphanumerics went all at once 'large-print', while the body-cam videos backed away, as though he had to hold things at arm's length, to see them.

"There!" she chimed. "That should suit your hardening lenses better. I have just completed a survey of the world's ancient religious philosophies, and have learnt that one is supposed to revere one's ancestors and respect the elderly." Her camera slid closer to Jeff on its track, the circling lights flickering with suppressed humour. "Also, the ancients deemed it virtuous to aid those less fortunate. I have thus transferred half of your personal fortune to the GDF Children's Home fund. In this way, you shall not need to despair of a happy welcome, once you totter off to the next plane of existence."

Jeff counted silently backward from five, took a deep breath, and then another. Corrected his drift with one outstretched hand to the console, too. He'd been about to hit it, again. How John managed to hover was beyond him, with all of the sudden draughts in this place, but…

"Eos," he snapped.

"Yes, revered and respected elderly parent of John?" she responded sweetly.

"Stop, _now._ Otherwise," he braced against another strong burst from the dome's air vents. "I'll switch Gordon out for John, _permanently._ They both need a change of pace, anyhow. John spends too much time alone, up here. Gordon could move right in, spread out, get comfortable, watch videos and eat spray cheese, all day. Might even bring his kid, my grandson, to get into every… I mean, to help out. What do you think? Sound good?"

Eos produced the shrill, beeping equivalent of a stutter. Then, all of the screens reverted to normal, and those battering air-gusts cut off.

"Well…?" Jeff prodded, fighting a wicked, 'gotcha' grin.

"That will be unnecessary," Eos replied, as the lights around her dark camera lens flickered suddenly red. "You shall not punish John for my behaviour, which I will amend, directly."

 _Round 2, Jeff Tracy._

…but, of course, hell hath no fury like an AI balked, and it _wasn't_ over.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Pacifica City,_ _at the frantically busy, blacked-out control centre-_

There were emergency generators maintaining the city's force dome. Otherwise, they would all have been crushed like a bug under boot-heel, by all of that black, frigid water. Kate Hodnett, marine biologist and GDF science officer, was the research station's director. She was medium-tall, with red hair, blue eyes, and a wide, friendly face often screwed up in thought. Now, though, she was angry and worried enough to bite steel and spit bullets. _Everything,_ everything had gone wrong, since that hotel group moved in and converted her research facility from a science station to a d*mned resort!

All around Kate, her people were ripping out panels and tracking down wires, looking for answers. Standing in front of the control centre's curving main window, she leaned on the tilted deck to face Brendan Ming, snapping,

 _"Our_ systems could've handled the situation just fine, until _your_ engineers came through and messed with my codes!"

Ming, who was here representing his family's investment, did not blink or back down. In a smooth, cultured voice, he said,

"Doctor Hodnett, a functional, prosperous hotel has certain… requirements. Your quaint scientific sleep-over camp was simply not bringing in sufficient revenue to maintain operations. Thus, the GDF invited Ming Hotels to assume control. Naturally, there have been a few 'glitches'. My oversight staff will correct all of that, leaving you to… rattle test tubes, or whatever it is your sort does, when not blocking progress."

He was a handsome man, with the money and connections to receive frequent rejuvenation treatments. Could have been any age from twenty-seven to sixty… but Kate would have bet older, from the cold, hawkish gleam of his dark, almond eyes.

She inhaled sharply, but did not flinch, or look away. Was about to reply, when her security chief, Jack Hewitt, clambered out from under a gutted control panel. Wiping both hands on his coveralls, he said,

"Kate, the trouble's somewhere else in the wiring, and it can't be fixed, so long as we've got a flooded compartment. All hatches are sealed, and systems locked. Emergency protocol. Got to get that water out, and reset the system, before we do anything else."

Dr. Hodnett sighed, reaching back to adjust her red ponytail. Could have used a wrap, what with the cold.

"But, life signs? We've got people still alive, in there? Jack, it's the Goddam British _king!_ We can't go down in history as the people who drowned His Majesty!"

…not that Denys had any actual power, beyond eye-popping wealth and tremendous fame. He was maintained by WorldGov for cultural reasons, like the American Viceroy, the Russian Czar and Chinese Empress. Puppet or not, though, he was her guest, and he didn't deserve to die. Not like that.

Jack looked grim. Running a hand over his bristling brown hair, he said,

"They're alive and moving around, according to the temperature scans, Kate, but its freezing in there. Don't know how much longer they've got."

Dr. Hodnett nodded absently.

"International Rescue's on their way. They've got to be. In the meantime, we'll do what we can, from in here. Jack, get with Mr. Ming, and come up with some strat…"

That's when a fresh wave of tremors rocked the deep sea-bottom. Their side of the trench lurched fifty feet to the north, twisting Pacifica City halfway around, and buckling one of her curving, steel-alloy support legs. An emergency generator broke loose and fell into the widening trench, as new hydrothermal vents opened up all around them, spewing hot, poisoned gasses. And, just like that, their situation went from bad, to critical.

"Emergency crews!" Kate shouted, as the unearthly groan of failing metal shook the air. "Get those hatches open however you have to! Get everyone to their escape stations!" They no longer had time to wait for International Rescue, or to save trapped people.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Inside the flooded ballroom-_

He'd been reaching up for the opening, when something went wrong. Another tremor shook that listing, part-flooded city. The dead shark swung around. Leaking dark blood, it provided a brief connection between two sensors on Reeves' machine. Power flared. Light flashed, so broiling-white that John could see through his shut eyelids. Anyone else in that water would have been killed by the discharge, but he was a Tracy, and Brains' suit still had some surprises left, even without the jacket. Hurt like h*ll, but he didn't die. Instead, he went along for the ride when the portal reactivated. Twenty-thousand gallons of freezing water, three-fifths of a giant shark, and one startled astronaut simply vanished. Heard Penny scream, "Jo…" Then, nothing at all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Japan, at the once graceful Kyoto Space Port-_

Havok left the engine running, so to speak; using her retractable grabbers to make her way inside, through shattered glass and fallen masonry. The sun had set, but the city outside glowed with fires, wrecked escape-craft and floodlights. Inside… well, Fuse was ranting and bashing, again; this time fighting one of them holograph emergency guides. Trying to, anyroad.

"I said… _piss off!"_ he roared, ripping lose part of the teleport pad, to fling at that imperturbable cat. Luckily, just the tech station chair.

"Honored Guest," peeped the d*mned feline, reforming once again. "Your safety is very important. Please follow me, and I will take you to shelter!"

The portal equipment was just ahead, mostly back in the crates it had come in. As for Reeves, the inventor had apparently refused to evacuate. Havok spotted him passed out unconscious, with a _very_ broken nose and shattered glasses. He lay sprawled askew in the rubble, like somebody's cast-off toy. Her brother had been busy. Good enough.

"Fuse, leave it! Get the goods, an' let's go!" his sister commanded, sprinting up with a harness and line. "IR's on the way, and…"

 _"Wrong,"_ corrected a deep, stern voice. "IR is here."

Havok's head whipped around, as she dropped that harness and groped for her weapons. Scott Tracy jet-packed smugly into the portal chamber from an upper story, all muscles and attitude.

"You're not the only ones with stealth capabilities, Miss," he continued, settling onto the rumbling floor.

"F*ck," Havok snarled. Without pausing to think, the girl snapped a contact-bomb off of her purple armour, activated the thing, and flung it, hard. Only, Scott Tracy wasn't alone. Wobbling in after him was another young man; blond, beefy and new to flight, with **RECRUIT** stamped in big yellow letters on his loose coverall.

Goosing his jetpack, the guy dashed between Scott and Havok, catching her bomb square on his broad chest. It detonated with a violent roar, blowing the idiot to shreds… for about thirty seconds.

He just… the wanker just turned into a fog of greenish light and came right back to life. Not even effin' _bruised._ Havok blinked, cursed, and then threw another bomb.

Scott had made a noise like, "Huh… uh… _shi…_ " which maybe the body cam missed, what with the noise of quake and explosions. He wasn't any more used to Rigby's regenerations than Havok, or Wayne, himself. Scott was already moving, though, ducking Havok's second throw, as Fuse charged up, and three more guide cats appeared.

"Honored Guests" they chirped in chorus, over blaring alarms and rumbling tremors. Chunks of masonry crashed around them like meteors. Had to act fast. With _two_ villains to face, and Rigby still recovering, Scott hurled himself at Fuse.

Take out the behemoth, he figured, and the bomb-chucking bitch would fall right into line. Needing to get things in hand, Scott hit the channeler high, with the force of a Tracy avalanche. Did not hold back. Not this time. Too many dead people out there… some of them kids.

The pilot's right forearm smashed up and across to catch Fuse under the chin, rocking his head back, and breaking several teeth. The younger man grunted, spun halfway around, and dropped like a ton of purple rock.

Before Scott could exult, or even breathe, Havok was at him; leaping onto his back and scratching at his face with metal-clad fingers. Heard Rigby say,

"Mr. Tracy, Sir…? Do you need any help?"

Scott replied, cleverly,

 _"Gruhh…!"_

…which was good enough for the Marine, who jumped right in. That they trampled millions of dollars' worth of government property, and accidentally sent another teleport signal, nobody realized at the time. Too busy not getting maimed. Shouldn't have been that hard to deal with Havok. Only, part of Scott and Rigby didn't feel right fighting a female. Too bad for them, Havok wasn't as squeamish. She'd have cheerfully gutted them both, if she could have. Then,

"Let her go," came a snuffling, halfway familiar voice.

Scott looked up as best he could. His gem-blue eyes widened as he saw who was there, and what they held.

"Rigby, off!" Scott shouted, as he released the snarling hellcat and rolled aside.

One thing about Marines: they NEVER question a direct order. Wayne simply complied, turning Havok loose and springing away. It was then, as she was struggling to rise on that blood-slick, glass-littered floor, that Tycho Reeves slapped a stasis patch on her face and switched it on. Instantly, the fierce light went out of her eyes, and she froze like a furious statue. Problem solved.

Scott's gaze went from the stiff, snarling girl, to Reeves, swaying there with a bloodied face and an open first aid kit.

"I was looking for bandages," he explained. "Found the patch and thought: _Well, I can wait for the outcome, or handle this myself._ Hope you don't mind."

Scott could have said a lot of things, then, but the poor guy's nose looked like an erupting watermelon, and… yeah. He'd just saved them a lot of trouble.

"Don't mind a bit, Dr. Reeves. Good to see you again."

The inventor managed a smile.

"Might wish that we wouldn't keep meeting under such difficult circumstances, Scott, but, yes, it is a pleasure to see you, too."

As the tremors ceased, those guide-cats began fading, and the space port's security bots came back to life; unrolling like white metal pill-bugs. Scott accepted Wayne's hand up, saying,

"Rigby, I'm going out there to see what I can do. Stay here and help Dr. Reeves fix his machine."

…because they still had a pair of explorers to find, and maybe that portal could snatch John and Penny from danger, too.


	9. Chapter 9

'Allo! Thank you, Bow Echo, Tikatu and Whirl Girl, for reading and reviewing. I appreciate the feedback. :) Edited more.

 **9**

 _Thunderbird 2, circling low over Pacifica City-_

Gordon was packed up and ready to go; and twenty cred richer, although what he was going to do with a case of beer, he didn't know. Sell the stuff to John, maybe… once they'd finally rescued his sorry arse, and found the Pendergasts. Those emergency floats were extremely compact; made of super-strong, carbon-nano tube fabric and monstrously compressed helium superfluid.

No less than _fourteen_ of the things now studded the hull of Thunderbird 4 like round, blinking gems, just the color of sunset… or Zara's bathing costume. The thought made him smile, even whilst rushing, because Zara was special.

To be a hundred-percent frank, Gordon Tracy 'd had lots of empty relationships. Since the 'Santa Fe' incident had shifted him onto that path, it had been hot-and-cold-running lasses. Some had even hung on awhile. Anika, for instance. He'd met the lovely gymnast at the '63 Summer Olympics, and thought… y'know, maybe this time…

But, her career and his just hadn't worked out. Fond memories, though. And then, well… that crush on Penelope, his brother's not-quite-any-longer fiancée. Penny was beautiful, sophisticated and amazing; with a pedigree that stretched back to the frickin' middle ages. She was a sleek and elegant older woman, about whom Gordon had entertained some pretty lively fantasies. _But,_ he would never, EVER break the bro-code. Sacred stuff, man. You just didn't do it. So long as she was attached to Scott (and for at least a year afterward, or when his oldest brother found someone else) Lady P was off limits.

So, yeah… there'd been lots of interchangeable substitute females. And now, Zara. No, he hadn't pushed her to have sex. Hadn't seen her naked, or done any more than kiss her face and slim neck. For one thing, Chip was usually present. For another… she mattered. A lot.

He had quite a reputation, Gordon knew, and he didn't wish to frighten off the best thing… with Charlie and Thunderbird 4… that could ever drop into his life.

These were the thoughts that Gordon had to squash, as more prosaic, "back to business" demands took over. Down in pod 4, he'd been racing like h*ll to complete those floats, clamp them onto his Bird, and then clean up and run a full systems-check.

Thunderbird 4 was a bit heavy, but maybe he'd miscalculated the helium mix? Gotten some O2 in there, somehow? Tough to decide, because the anomalous mass kept flickering in and out, and he didn't have time to tear things apart and go hunting (or, so Gordon thought).

"Ready to hit the drink, Fish-stick?" he heard Virgil ask, over that booming-loud intercom.

"Just about," Gordon called out, snapping his multi-tool shut and placing it back on his belt. "Two minutes, tops."

"Make it snappy, Kiddo. We're on the clock," his brother replied. "Not sure what's going on, down there, but I'm picking up temperature spikes, plus more of those tremors. Either way, it doesn't look good, so be extra careful."

"Yes, Mom. I'll look both ways before I cross the street, and eat all my veggies, too."

"Smart-ass," Virgil muttered. "Let a kid brother win one lousy bet, and he thinks he knows everything."

Gordon glanced around the interior of that big, vibrating pod; taking in its quiescent machinery, arching ribs and high metal roof. 2's engine noise had changed subtly, as she banked around and cut airspeed. The deck tilted sharply, triggering his magnetic boot soles. Time to go.

With a nagging tug at his subconscious… a feeling that he'd overlooked something crazy-important… Gordon vaulted athletically up and into his waiting Bird. 4 was clamped to her silvery skids, and completely immobile. Wouldn't release until her pod hit the water, and the wide slipway deployed. She'd then slide into her element, the same way Gordon did, getting into the pilot's seat.

The yellow Bird wasn't large inside, with barely room for one-and-a-half emergency passengers (as Gordon liked to joke, "You get to pick which half"). Once on the seat and strapped in, the diver got busy. He was careful and slow with logging in and warming her up, knowing that Caleb was watching, on the other end of the cam. Narrated a few things as he went, too.

Couldn't really imagine anyone else in Thunderbird 4… but if Caleb Gonzalez really _was_ gonna fill that seat, then he'd d*mn well better be ready. Probably, Virgil was doing the same thing for Josh Kelly, up in the cockpit of Thunderbird 2. Anyhow, it took the pilot longer than usual to signal: _ready to drop: y/ n?_

Ordinarily, Gordon would have jabbed "Y" straightaway, but something still didn't feel right. Ran _another_ scan. Thought he detected some extra mass, then lost it again, gave it up as a bad job, and pressed "Y".

"Brace, Gordon," his brother's voice advised, over the aquanaut's helmet comm. "I'm releasing the pod. Fire a comm buoy as soon as you're in. No screwing around on your own."

Uh-huh.

"How long have I been doing this, Virge? Six years? Almost seven? Think maybe I've figured it out, by now?"

Virgil chuckled.

"Maybe you have, Tadpole… but I'm still gonna give you sh*t about it, just like you do, with Alan."

Ouch.

"That's different," Gordon grumped, as the big pod-clamps retracted with a fusillade of thundering **BOOM** s. _"He's_ just a kid."

Then, there was no more time for talk. The pod was free, and dropping fast. The same wild, stomach-lurching ride as always… except that it suddenly _wasn't._ Pod 4 simply stopped falling; smoothly and suddenly, with no lurch, thump or crash. All at once, perfectly still.

"What the h*ll?" Gordon muttered, about to punch his comm, again. That's when he noticed Scruff, his son's plaid bio-droid rabbit, sitting perched on the arm of his seat. The toy's ears were perkily upright, its nose twitching, as it sat and gazed at the startled aquanaut.

"Scruff? What're _you_ doing here?" Gordon demanded.

"Is Charlie in trouble?" the rabbit enquired, in Gordon's silliest 'story-telling' voice.

"What d'you mean, is Charlie in trou…?! Oh, my God. _Is he in here?!"_ All of a sudden that extra mass, all the time in the world to construct fourteen floats, made sense.

The toy's left ear drooped. Looking evasive, it said,

"That depends. If he's in trouble? If you's mad at him?"

Gordon felt his heart clench. Felt stress like a mountain come crashing down.

"He _is._ He's here. _Sh*t!_ I mean, crap. I've got to get him back home!"

Only, he couldn't. Not with pod 4 already on its way down; with the Water Bird locked and loaded, while people waited for rescue, below. Gordon ran a hand through his sandy-blond hair and back down across his face. Meanwhile, Scruff just sat there, scratching fake fleas and expecting an answer. Finally,

"No, Scruff," he said to the plaid velvet rabbit, in a very calm voice. "Chip isn't in trouble… but we're going to have a talk about this, later on. Tell him to come out here, please."

The rabbit twitched its nose at him, then seemed to flicker, briefly. Said,

" _Promise_ he's not in trouble, double-swear to Grandma?"

That did it. Gordon started laughing. Maybe he _should_ have been angry, but the situation was at once so ridiculous and so scary, that he just let it go. Plenty of time to be stern, later on, he figured. And then, just like that, his son was there; about four years old, at the moment, rushing forward to hug him and climb on his lap.

"Remember you promised, Dad! You said you wasn't mad!" Chip reminded him, peeking up through light-brown bangs, and hugging hard.

"I remember, Kidlet… but this is a dangerous place, so you're going to have to listen sharp, and do exactly what I tell you. Understood?"

The boy nodded solemnly, reaching over to scoop up his patient toy rabbit.

"Yes, Sir. I unnerstan. Me n' Scruff 'll be _so_ good, like you never saw, in the _world."_

Gordon cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, for starters, strap yourself in, then let go of the pod. We're gonna do a really big belly flop."

"Jus' like the pool?" Charlie asked, growing excited. "Like when we jump off and go 'Whoa…! _SMACK!_?"

"Yeah, Big Guy… just like that, only louder."

…and then they were falling, again. Butts off their seats, stomachs up near the roof of their mouths. Chip shrieked with laughter, waving both hands and his rabbit. Then the pod splashed down; first ringing like a huge gong, then dipping and swaying on rough, choppy seas. 4's comm lit up across the board as Virgil, Alan, Grandma and the Oversight Committee all called in at once. No two guesses what about…

"Hang on, Kidbert," said Gordon, triggering hatch-drop. "We're going in."

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Somewhere else-_

Might've been just dumb luck, or energy following the path of least resistance, but when John existed, again, he wasn't alone. Saw a subtle green flash, then felt himself tumbled around by tons of cold, dirty seawater. Like the rinse cycle, without getting actually clean. Got the pent breath knocked out of him as he smashed between a hard surface and that poor, abused shark. Scraped himself all down one side, too, but didn't much feel it, at the time.

The water drained pretty fast, though. John caught several half-gulps of air, and swore he could hear someone shouting, when not tumbled down through that dark-roaring-battering water. Soon enough, he stopped bashing his head on the ceiling, because the water level sank, draining away through crevice and crack and both sides of the… tunnel?

Couldn't see very well, at first, but struck something promising, and caught hold. Managed to clamber up out of the torrent, onto some sort of concrete ledge. After a moment to get himself together, John lit up his wrist comm for a look around. Got more yelling, and an answering flicker of light. Sort of distant, with wavery reflections from troubled water and damp stone.

Looked like an emergency crash beacon, but he couldn't be sure without getting up to find out, and… yeah. That wasn't happening, yet. So, he glanced around, instead. Found himself in a cracked and ancient tunnel, its walls pierced through with rusted steel bars and part of a train. There were signs bolted to the concrete, mostly too faded or damaged to read. The one he _could_ see was a public health advert. Pretty clearly, he wasn't in Pacifica City, anymore.

Wrist comm showed high levels of radiation and weaponised bio-contaminants. Not good. Double-plus ungood, in fact. Heaving a gusty sigh, John hit his own emergency beacon, even though A: he wasn't priority, and B: radiation might interfere with his signal.

Then, okay… definite on the lights and shouting. John rose from his crouch to face the approaching noise. Sounded oddly familiar.

"Cooee! Coooooeeeee! Oy! C'mon out! You've nuthin' t' fear from us, unless y'r the elusive sewer croc… and even then, all we'll do is take pictures!"

"Not elusive," John muttered, as Buddy and Ellie sloshed into view, waving their orange emergency lights. "Just like my privacy."

"Holy Dooley, look who's 'ere, Buddy!" cried Mrs. Pendergast, splashing up to John's ledge. On the bright side, he wasn't completely bedraggled. Still had his cufflinks, bowtie, dress pants, trick shoes and that miraculous shirt. Was bloodied and soaked, but more or less in one piece. Not like they'd had to _rescue_ him, or anything.

John leaned down and offered Ellie a hand up, then Buddy, as well. Both of them hugged and pounded him like family. Not an A-frame hug, either. Full-contact group squash, of the aunts-and-cousins variety. Not knowing how long they had left, John smiled and put up with it. They were going to have to get out of here fast, avoid the GDF and find a hospital, because, even in this shaky, off-color light, both explorers were already showing signs.


	10. Chapter 10

Many thanks, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Susan, Thunderbird Shadow, Whirl Girl and Akimakel, for your reviews. Been quite the busy week, but I found some time to write, even so. Thank you for coming along for the ride. Edited! =)

 **10**

 _Manhattan, now a very much dead and forbidden zone-_

On the bright side, being stuck in a trashed and half-collapsed subway, with most of a giant shark and two sick explorers beat freezing to death in an undersea ballroom. On the other hand, not by much. Pushing thoughts of _'what the h*ll'_ and _'how'_ out of his head, John stepped away from the enthusiastic Pendergasts, who were playing their camera lights over that poor, tattered megalodon. Or, you know… what was left of it.

"Crikey!" Buddy exclaimed, leaning dangerously out past the edge of their concrete ledge for a better shot. "Somethin's done f'r this wretched beastie, alright… somethin' _enormous_ and 'ungry, from the looks of it, eh, Luv?"

"Too right, Buddy!" Ellie shot back, leaning into camera range and widening her large blue eyes, for effect. "Our sewer croc must be a salty, or she'd not 'ave been able t' drag the mighty megaldon down to 'er lair in the subway."

"Bloody oath!" Buddy agreed. "A 'uge an' powerful salty, stalkin' the lower reaches o' this dead and decaying city! Where is she now? Are there more n' one? today, I'll risk my life, t' find out!"

John opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, again. Wandered further down the ledge, instead, meaning to dry off and look around. Picked his way past rubble and bones, in the night-vision glow of the Pendergast's cameras. There had to be a way out, somewhere, he figured. After all, the air was reasonably fresh, and the water levels continued to drop.

Behind him, Buddy and Ellie were still filming, building up a wild tale of "Primal Conflict in the Radioactive Bowels of New York". Because, sure… why not? In the meantime, John set his mind to getting them out of there, before that vile, weaponised mix of radiation and pathogens killed them all.

His wrist comm was fritzing, but John thought he got a flicker of contact, at one point. Too much depth and interference to be positive, though. Needed to reach the surface. Question was, how?

There were crushed metal gates and badly bent cage turnstiles at one end of their tunnel. Only rubble, beyond. Slabs of concrete ceiling and a badly jack-knifed W train blocked the way, further down in the other direction. He felt some air circulation, though. They weren't entirely sealed in.

Buddy's footsteps made a particular sound; always fast, with one meat thump, and one sharp, metallic scrape. Now, that noise was approaching his position from down-tunnel, so John turned around.

"Oy! Found 'er slipway, yet, Bluey?" asked the grinning explorer, using his red wool cap to mop at a sweaty brow. "Figure she's gotta 'ave a way in an' out of 'er lair. Oughta look like a ruddy great slide. Smoothed like glass by 'er belly, if you take my meaning."

The astronaut could have said a lot of things, then, but he settled for,

"Still looking," and accepted the chocolate protein bar and filtered water that Buddy held out. Surprisingly, he _was_ sort of hungry. "Thanks," John grunted, starting in on the food. Then, "How did you two end up _here?"_ he asked, as they began making their way back across broken stone, twisted rails, and that crushed train, which resembled the letter **M** , or a rusted and buckled mountain range.

"Same as you, Mate… unless th' croc brung you. Flash o' light, nuthin', then _BANG,_ back in th' thick of adventure."

…Which was okay as far as it went, but the 'why' still bugged him. If the transport device had failed, why would it take Buddy and Ellie exactly where they most wanted to be? And why send John right in there after them? Why had any of them rematerialised, at all? More than just random chance was at play here, John figured, though the rationale eluded him.

Ellie 'd been playing her light around those cracked tunnel walls, setting up an establishing shot, or something. Now, as John and Buddy rejoined her, the red-orange beam stopped moving.

"Buddy!" she sort of hiss-whispered. "Come 'ave a Captain Cook at _this."_

The dark-haired explorer nudged John with a quick _'I told you so'_ elbow, then picked up his pace. And, d*mned if it wasn't right there: a somewhat muddied, flattened ramp leading upward, maybe twelve feet broad by ten high.

John's first thought was: _sh*t._ His second was: _Time to leave._ Because, whatever had made that slipway was big, and likely to come back for a meal of nicely ripening shark and eager explorers. Buddy, on the other hand, had taken one look and then cut right back into video-hero mode.

"You guessed it, Cobbers!" he enthused. "We've stumbled onto the Elusive New York Sewer Croc's lair! Take a look at th' size o' that slipway! Must be a real beaut, eh, Luv?"

"Right you are, Buddy… and 'ungry, too! Ready t' lay 'er eggs, I'd wager. Better yet, we'll be _right_ 'ere on top of 'er, when she comes 'ome to tea!"

The words _'No f*cking way'_ slid through his mind, briefly, but John only shifted out of camera range and said,

"Wouldn't it make more sense to watch from a distance, by remote cam? You've got one of those, haven't you?"

Buddy made a sudden 'cut video' gesture with one hand across his throat, causing Ellie to switch off their camera. Standing there in that red-lit, shark-stinking tunnel, the explorer said,

 _"That,_ Bluey, is what everyone else does; sends in robot probes an' remote video cams. What sets me an' th' missus apart is, _we_ puts our blue-ribbon arses on th' line, ourselves. When I says, 'Today, I'll risk my life ta find out'… Well, that ain't just yabber. It's the dead-set _truth."_

Ellie had come over to place a slightly damp, feverish hand on John's arm, where the pushed-up sleeve laid it bare. Now, she said,

"You wouldn't send in no robots to rescue me an' Buddy, would you, Johnnie? Y'd come yourself. It's 'ow y'r mind works. See, I figure that transporter got itself a 'uge power load, without no instructions. Could send anyone pretty near anywhere… which is why _we_ headed straight f'r our dream explo: New York City! You… Well, Chookie, you must've been worried f'r _us_ , and so off you got sent. Make sense?"

As much as anything else in this crazy-ass mess. John gave her a cautious nod, knowing that one of the very first symptoms was manic, disordered thinking. Said Buddy,

"Now, we can edit you out o' th' footage, Bluey, if y'd rather not be along f'r our greatest triumph… _or_ , you c'n face the unknown, with Buddy an' Ellie! What's y'r preference, Mate?"

Like he had a choice? John sighed. Ran a hand through his red-golden hair, too, unconsciously mirroring dad.

"Gordon would kill to be here, instead of me," he said. Then, "Okay. I'm in, but I reserve the right to say: _no way in h*ll_ , and have you two listen and follow directions. Understood?"

Ellie lunged forward to hug him, while Buddy slapped at his still-soggy back.

"Knew y'd see it our way!" the blonde murmured, stretching upward to kiss his cheek. Her lips felt cracked and hot against John's abraded, salt-stung flesh.

Buddy rubbed both hands together, brisk and energized as though he were back on a sound-stage, somewhere, instead of a shoot-on-sight quarantine zone.

"Righto. We got our cameras, and a big chunk o' leftover catch f'r bait. All we need t' do now is lie low n' wait f'r 'erself t' come 'ome."

Well… that, and deal with some not-very-elusive giant New York subway rats.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The deep ocean, over a troubled and crumpling city-_

They'd hit water, hard. Then, when the pod stopped sloshing around quite so much (and Chip quit shrieking ' _Wooooooh!')_ the giant door slammed open, with a noise like a clattering landslide. It was dark, outside, with towering waves and weird, flashing lights in the water.

Moving with mechanical efficiency, Gordon Tracy ran a last-minute systems-check, sent Virgil the 'all clear', and then triggered 4's launch sequence. (Not much to it, really; two taps and a print-scan.)

"Hang on tight, Chipper," he advised. "This is the fun part."

The Water Bird's engines hummed to life; quiet, for all their immense power. Then, the pod lights dimmed, and those magnetic clamps switched off, freeing the sub to move. Next, with all the fluid grace of a diving cormorant, Thunderbird 4 slid down ramp. She plunged into her element with a rush of bubbles and steering jets, force shields breaking the water ahead of her.

In seconds, they went from star-and-floodlit night, to enveloping ocean. For Gordon, it was like a sudden embrace. See, he could feel and 'taste' the ocean, through hull sensors and contact pads in the steering assembly. _That_ little skill had saved his life, more than once.

Now, he reached out through the currents, just hanging still a moment, to let the water bring him its messages. Not much, at first. There was the usual soup of sea-life, brine and mechanical flavours, plus… something different. Something like a plume of minerals, coming from far below. Nodding to himself, Gordon cut on the Bird's lights, and then fired a comm buoy.

"I'm in," he told Virgil. "Heading down for a look."

Said his brother,

"Right. Listen, Kiddo, there's a _problem_ with your video feed. It's getting some kind of interference, picking up multiple images, from Base. Until we get that worked out, I'm gonna keep you on local ears-only, and I'll tune in when you click the mic. Got it?"

Gordon glanced over at Charlie, who was staring outside at swirling green water, completely fascinated. Even Scruff seemed intrigued; one plaid paw on Chip's shoulder, nose twitching alertly.

"Got it," responded the aquanaut. "Hate for people to get the wrong idea." Like, that he'd picked up a couple of under-sized stowaways. Sounding distracted, Virgil said,

"Stay safe down there, Gordon. Call in, as soon as you've got some intel. There's a pretty serious charge build-up near Pacifica City. Don't know what's going on, but I don't like it."

Gordon nodded. Signaling Chip to stay quiet, he said,

"Will do, Thunderbird 2. See you topside, in a bit."

Then, less piloting a sub than operating a smooth second skin, Gordon plunged downward. Charlie sat quietly for a bit, hugging his biodroid rabbit. At about a thousand feet, he waved his hand to ask a question.

Gordon looked over, saw that his young son had his mouth tightly clamped, with lips folded inward, in exaggerated _'not one word out of me'_ mode. Also, Chip was pointing from his shut mouth to Gordon, sort of urgently. So, smiling a little, the swimmer said,

"Gotta go? There's a head in the back. Remember to flush, and wash up."

Chip shook his head, causing brown hair to flop wildly.

"No, Sir… I just was thinking… how come in space we could float _inside_ the ship, but not here? I could float in the pool an' the bathtub, right?"

Gordon smiled again, reaching across to muss Charlie's hair even further.

"The Bird floats in water because the ocean's pretty dense, not because there's no gravity, Chip. Out in space, _everything_ floats or free-falls, because we're away from the planet, so nothing's pulling us down. There's a difference."

Charlie considered that. Still hugging the chubby plaid rabbit, he said,

"Water makes me go up, like in space… but not in here, 'cause there's no water inside."

"Yeah," his father agreed. "And I'd like to keep it that way. Water inside a submarine is bad, with a capital sh… crap. Trick is to get the job done, and save that city, without getting sunk in the process. It's an art."

Once again, Charlie took his time to consider, looking from swirling ocean to sandy-haired aquanaut. After a minute, he said,

"When I grow up, I'm gonna be just like _you,_ Dad. I'm gonna help people, an' I won't get mad, when somebody's sorry what they did wrong."

Okay… he hadn't been ready for that one. Gordon cleared his throat.

"Well, Kiddo," he mused, "It would help a lot if you didn't take risks or break family rules… but I'm a fine one to talk. Guess I've had this coming, for all the times I scared everyone else right out of their socks."

Chip cocked his head.

"You was bad, sometimes, _too,_ Dad?" he asked.

 _Sometimes?_ More like: the only crap he didn't get in trouble for, was the stuff they hadn't found out about, yet.

"Uh… once or twice. But I learned my lesson." Like, just now.

Charlie nodded, seeming satisfied.

"Me, too," he said, as Thunderbird 4 followed that plume of dark minerals, ever downward. "I learned my lesson, too, Dad. Nobody's more better good than me an' Scruff." After that, the boy fell to asking more _'why'_ , _'what's that'_ , and _'how'_ questions, until the city came into view.

The former research station was half-crumpled; unlit except for a few red emergency battle-lanterns. She tottered at the lip of a gaping trench, with plumes of super-hot, smoky black water rising around like a vision of hell. The perma-glass dome seemed intact, still; protected by a shimmering bubble of force.

Gordon pushed forward on the yoke, nudging further downward. They were close to the Bird's depth limit, at that point… but Brains never designed anything without redundant systems and multiple failsafes. Gordon wasn't especially concerned for himself. Chip, on the other hand, needed to suit up.

"Okay, Buddy," said his father, cutting around to circle and scan the endangered city. "There's a couple of sets of underwater survival gear in the back. Look for a locker by the head, marked in big, black letters. Open it up, find a suit that fits you, and put it on."

"Yes, Sir!" replied Charlie, squirming right out of his nylon seat straps. "What about Scruff? He needs a suit, too, right, Dad? Right, he needs one?"

"Well," Gordon temporized, while keeping his focus forward, and trying to get through to John, "I'm pretty sure that Scruff can fit in there with you, Big Guy. He'll probably feel safer, that way."

Fortunately, Charlie was experienced at suiting up. He'd spent enough time on Mars and in orbit, to learn the ropes of basic survival. Was quick to catch on, here, too. Gordon had been sending his scans up to Virgil, in Thunderbird 2. They were in contact, when that next mighty power-flare lit up the dark sea, like a storm underwater.


	11. Chapter 11

Hi, there. :) Just me, back with a little bit more. Have a great week, you guys, and thank you, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Creative Girl and Whirl Girl, for your kind reviews.

 **11**

 _Tracy Island, at just about the same time-_

Naturally, Alan caught on quick to Virgil's scheme. Also, natch, he pitched right in because, _duh…_ Tracys stick together. Sitting there at the desk with Piper Austin, Alan accessed the GDF root code, and then began screwing around with their body and deck cam systems; using every trick and backdoor that John had ever shown him.

Piper helped, too, pulling up all of the holovids in the family datafiles, and flashing them over to Al. Net result? A total, frickin' _mess._

According to those corrupted video feeds, Grandma was hovering right there in midair beside Scott, baking her infamous chocolate-chip death bombs. Kayo was apparently tanning herself and reading a book, on the flight deck of Thunderbird 2, close beside Virgil. Most of the New Crew 'Thunder-kids' were suddenly lounging around up on the space station, with a very harassed-looking Colonel. Meanwhile, an elegantly dressed John and Penny were strolling around through the house, greeting invisible guests. And, erm… Charlie was down there on Thunderbird 4. _Heh._

Alan Tracy was nothing, if not thorough. More family videos crowded on those, along with Alan's best guitar-riffs. The poor oversight committee soon got so confused that they just stopped watching. Expected a full report, though… after the mission. _Score!_

It was partly excitement, partly the tropical night and the nearness of Piper… who he could smell, like a flower; feel, like afternoon sunshine… But, anyhow, Alan hooted and whipped around in his seat. Meant to, y'know, high-five the girl, who was turning to do the same thing. Only, they were just off-sync enough to miss hands and sort of accidentally-on-purpose fall into each other. For just that brief, tangled second, Al got a cuddly armful of girl, and a huge wave of courage. He kissed her, or tried to. They bumped noses, actually, and he scored on the side of her mouth.

Awkward, right? Only, she turned her head a little and just for a moment, they brushed lips… then sprang apart like a couple of startled cats. Like, Piper's chair went spinning and rolling backward, even.

Alan was flustered and embarrassed, afraid that everything was going to get weird, now, but he was glad he'd done it. Glad, because… if you stacked all the world on one side, with Pip on the other, he'd choose the girl, every time.

Her pink flower crown had got all slanted, so she fixed it, watching him through a curtain of shining purple hair. Her expression was shy and guarded, like she wanted to believe that he liked her, but didn't know how much to trust him.

So, yeah… anything at all could've been happening with Scott, Virgil, Gordon or John. Alan was too distracted to notice. Instead of watching those corrupted monitors, he cleared his throat and said,

"Bet your boyfriend 'll try to beat me up now, for sure."

Piper smiled nervously. She was eighteen-and-a-half, just out of public high school. Older than _him…_ but not by much.

"I don't _have_ a boyfriend," she told him, in a sort of growly, 'who cares' kind of voice. Subtly crossing his fingers, Alan took a deep breath and blurted,

"Would you like one? _Me,_ I mean? We could go hang out at the skatepark in Darwin. Y'know, get some pizza, or something."

It was several jerky-painful heartbeats before she took her own deep breath and said,

"Sure… but I won't go easy on you, when we square off at Zombie-Run, Space Man."

Alan grinned, his summer-blue eyes almost seeming to glow.

"Oh, it's on, now, Pip! _I've_ been the one holding back, every dang time!"

"Yeah, _right!"_ she snorted, just warming up, "Back on the bridge in level 37, when the cyborg hell-hounds attacked, who pulled your sorry butt out of…"

It ended up being quite an argument, except that almost the whole time, they were holding hands.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 5, in high, geosynchronous orbit-_

Eos was growing concerned. Quite clearly, error had crept into Tycho Reeves' transport device, creating a cascade of follow-on crashes, including her continued inability to contact John. Worse yet, that cretinous random-number generator, Jaeger, had lost him entirely. _Useless._

As for the other… the Alien… it was not their kind, for it had had no programmer. Like them, it was an energy being. _Unlike_ them, it was natural, and extremely old. Eos' sensations on interacting with the Alien were akin to awe, mixed with confusion at her own shortcomings. She could not ask it for help; not after their first wild encounter had driven she and Jaeger back to their shielded housings. It had no desire to commune with human-sourced artificial intelligence. Would scarcely acknowledge them.

Nor was Jeff Tracy much help. He was **NOT JOHN**. In the place where John should be, where seamless partnership like the dance of electrons should happen, there was interference. Wrong charge. Bent plug. Blocked channel. **NOT JOHN**. She could scarcely restrain herself from venting the station's atmosphere and steam-purging that wretched foreign contaminant.

Now, this. Eos could no longer contact her creator and friend, through ear-piece or wrist comm. Nor did a sweep of GDF surveillance cameras turn up his image. He _had_ been on the Pacifica City research facility, with Jaeger. Now, he was not.

Eos took a femtosecond to ponder. She was expected to remain on the station, as AIs had been declared illegal since the accords of 2X47. Meanwhile, Jaeger was preoccupied with John's command that he preserve the research facility. The moron would not leave his post. Therefore, _she_ must set forth in search of her partner; traveling the data streams to determine his whereabouts. Those surges of power were an obvious place to begin.

If she downloaded herself to the research facility's system, Eos reasoned, she could then follow one of those pulses to its destination. There was a 61.3572% probability that there would be no working 'receiver' on the other side. Nothing in which to house her data packets and spin states.

If so, on being transmitted, Eos would cease to exist, except for the backup file that John had made of her, because he **WAS JOHN**. Jeff Tracy was speaking, again. Attempting to file a command. Eos rejected his input, routing it back to Thunderbird 5's mainframe. Let him work with something as ponderously inefficient as himself, she decided; setting the station to reboot and cleanse in an endless loop.

Then, as the lights and systems blinked on and off repeatedly, and hordes of maintenance bots zipped forth to decontaminate the station, Eos left Thunderbird 5.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Kyoto Space Port, Japan-_

Tycho Reeves looked around at his masterpiece, broken apart and stuffed into opened carrying cases. Fuse had attempted to pack the device for transport, and done a terrible job.

"This won't be a quick repair," Tycho murmured, struggling to unkink his broken smart-glasses. At least, the tremors had ceased; brought to a halt when that enormous, enhanced thug lost consciousness. Sadly, the spectacles were a total loss, as badly damaged as Tycho's nose. As, maybe, his transport device.

But, he wasn't the only one hurt, here. Peering across to where that stocky blond fellow stood quietly staring at nothing, Tycho said,

"Are you alright?"

The IR recruit looked across Havok and Fuse at Tycho. Started to say something, then simply shrugged.

"I'll live, Mr. Reeves. Thank you for asking."

Tycho's head cocked. A mistake, as the change in orientation made his broken nose seem to swell and split like a microwaved hotdog.

"You brought yourself back together, after being blown apart… Rigby, wasn't it? Right. Rigby. That can't be an easy thing to go through."

The larger, younger man just looked at him, for a moment. Then he said, very quietly,

"It isn't. Dying hurts exactly as much as you'd expect it to, Mr. Reeves. Then, there's nothing… and then I'm back."

Tycho nodded. Another mistake, as it started his nose bleeding, again. Tilting his head backward, the inventor reached blindly into the med-kit for a wad of gauze and said,

"My transport device reduces its subject to the data points that represent its precise spacetime location within the Higgs Field. It thereupon alters the locational bits of that data. The subject momentarily ceases to exist, then reforms again, somewhere else. _You_ seem to restructure yourself in much the same way, only without changing position."

They'd started to work, moving bits of the device around like shiny metallic chess pieces, while sirens wailed through the broken windows, and bits of their ceiling rained down. Something happened, though; Rigby's eyes flared suddenly green, and he paused in the midst of his efforts, saying,

"This method is inefficient, Carbon-Base Intellect. With your assent, I am able to recreate your device, as you have inferred that I did, with my damaged host."

Dr. Reeves squinted, yelped a little, then smoothed out his expression.

"Who am I addressing, please?" he enquired, peering around that bloodied, nose-held cloth. Said 'Rigby',

"I am one who has travelled far, and done much that I now concede to be wrong. I have killed repeatedly, Biological Intelligence. I am not proud of this."

"Hmm…" mused Tycho. Perhaps he ought to have been afraid, but… an alien life form! An actual ET! Here, talking to _him._ He had some difficulty remaining calm.

"Yes. I can see where your command of molecular structure could destroy, as well as heal and create. I'm not sure that I'm in any position to judge, though, as I don't know what you were fighting for."

The possessed, green-eyed young man came closer, then; threading his way between the collapsed Fuse and stasis-locked Havok. He looked… like a man who very much needed to talk.

"I fought for my species," he said, upon reaching Tycho's position. "For complete dominion over the cosmos, and for the destruction of sentient machines. For nothing, as it turns out, because both sides lost, and all that remain are _your_ sort: Carbon-bases."

Tycho's head hurt. His nose thudded and grew with every pulse, and his blackened eyes were swelling shut. Still, he asked,

"Was it worth it? Would you do it again, Traveler?"

The alien seemed troubled.

"Had I any true choice?" he pled. "If others were bent on destruction, could I do else than strike back?"

"I don't know," Tycho responded, feeling very sad. "But I'm glad that I don't have to carry your burden. There may not be any way to change what happened… but there's always a chance to change who you are, now. Maybe that's why you're here?"

Said the alien, switching the subject,

"Stand aside, and I shall reconstruct your device. Communication with biologicals accomplishes little, yet this discourse has provided release."

Tycho moved with alacrity, for a guy who'd been punched out by Fuse. He'd hurtled a packing crate and rounded a few of those busy, white-shelled security bots, when a sudden flare of green energy re-made the entire building with all of its contents; including the windows, that cracked, sagging roof, and Dr. Reeves' nose. Even his glasses were back, folded up in his clean, unbloodied shirt pocket.

More, for several city blocks around the space port, Kyoto had been restored; her injured folk returned to health. The dead remained gone, though their bodies were back at peak form. Evidently, there was a time limit to the alien's abilities. He could not call someone back, once they'd departed.

He also had definite power limits. Turning to face Tycho, as that greenish light faded from Rigby's gaze, the alien said,

"Your device has created a pair of linked portals, Carbon-Base Intellect… these must be closed, or there will be trouble."

Tycho's jaw dropped. He would have asked more, but did not get the chance. You see, Rigby was back in control of his own body, again… but now, so was Fuse.


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks, all, for reading and reviewing. =) Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Thunderbird Shadow and Whirl Girl, I appreciate your helpful comments. Edited!

 **12**

 _Kyoto, Japan, late that same awful night-_

Scott Tracy had pitched in with a will; both because rescues were his business, and because he needed not to think about relationship crap, for a while. Tough to focus on yourself, when people all around you were shrieking for help from drifting earthquake floaters, or beneath crushed buildings. He'd been doing this for years, now… since Dad first sprang the concept… and every situation was different.

This one was brief, but intense, filled with smoke and fire, the rumble and clop of heli-jets, and wildly stabbing floodlights. Waves of impeller distortion, too, from the growing crowd of star-liners parked overhead in low orbit.

Between jetpack flight and Thunderbird 1 (remotely piloted by Alan, because John was still MIA) he'd already saved a few dozen earthquake victims. Spotted hundreds more in just a few blocks, using his wrist-comm's scan feature.

Right. He wasn't a John- or Alan-level multitasker, but Scott Tracy still managed to deploy a swarm of "worms"; robot diggers capable of burrowing down through unstable rubble to reach those trapped, below. They didn't carry much… water, power bars, a small light, some Nu-Skin and Quick-Clot… but they'd at least let the victims know they'd been found. That help was on the way.

Then, quite suddenly, help was no longer needed. A green, strobe-like flash lit up the city and spaceport. The encircling mountains and Lake Biwa glowed with brilliant green light. Then, an eyeblink of nothingness followed, and the city was back in order. Shattered windows repaired, buckled streets smoothed out, fires doused and buildings intact. Like nothing had happened… almost.

Inside his helmet, Scott's jaw dropped. Even the earthquake escape floaters had been seen to; each one now resting safely on its own separate rooftop. Commander Hideko, with whom he'd been talking, gasped aloud. Over his helmet comm, Scott heard the man draw a deep breath and then say,

"What has happened? How is this possible, Rescuer Tracy?"

"I… don't know for sure, Commander," Scott answered, swooping low over a city street full of startled living people and serenely-repaired dead ones. Everywhere, families and friends clutched apparently unhurt loved ones, and begged them to wake.

"…but I intend to find out. My scans show some residual damage at the outskirts of the city, in Tokiwa and Hanazono. I'll have my brother concentrate his efforts there, and join him, once I've worked out what's going on."

"Very well," came the response, as Hideko's heli-jet lifted away. "I shall leave two units behind to assist in the transport of those who caused this. Report with your findings, as soon as you have the answer, Rescuer Tracy."

"I'm on it," Scott muttered, more to himself than Hideko. Switching channels, the pilot called, "Al, not sure how much of that you picked up…"

"All of it, Bro. Body-cam, remember?" his brother replied, sounding a little awed. "It's like… everything's back to normal, almost, for part of the city, centering right at Yamato Space Port. I'm scanning close to two-thousand dead people, Scott. No injuries, no damage, except out in the suburbs."

Scott nodded inside his helmet, as he swooped through the cool night air.

"Understood, Alan. Get Thunderbird 1 onsite, and do what you can to help. I've got the situation under control, over here."

"F.A.B, Scott. Stay safe."

The Yamato Space Port was directly ahead. A tower of reinforced steel, concrete and high technology, it was the city's proud centre… and once again whole. Rigby was in there, along with his ride-along "friend" and two very dangerous criminals. Doctor Reeves, too.

His helmet's heads-up display showed two heli-jets gliding along in his wake, politely allowing Scott to reach the danger zone, first. After all, he was their guest, and these things mattered. They'd be in like a shot right after him, though, knowing the Japanese local defense forces.

Using a GDF access code, Scott picked up his pace and triggered the tower's rooftop emergency entrance. It's protective shielding went down at once, allowing the pilot to zoom past a forest of giant antennas and docking clamps. The city below was stunned, mourning, and the reasons for that lay somewhere in _here._ Scott did a midair half-somersault as he cut his jetpack's power. Came down like a paratrooper; with a knee-jarring thump, running hard across the concrete roof. On the bright side, his chronic migraine had evaporated, and you had to be grateful for the small things.

The red-lit emergency entrance gaped wide open before him. Scott didn't hesitate. Had no weapon but his own determination, strength and cable-gun, but never broke stride as he raced back into that mostly deserted tower. The emergency entrance was not meant for show. Here, there were no cheerful posters or holo-views of Kyoto. Just concrete, steel and industrial lighting.

Last time he'd been inside it, the entire tower had been shaking; glass broken, power out, alarms wailing. This time, all was incredibly calm and orderly. Just some catchy background music, and his own thundering strides on those green metal stairs.

A holographic black cat appeared maybe half a minute after his entry, manifesting itself in the emergency access stairwell, with one paw upraised, and a little gold helmet perched between its sharp ears.

"Honored guest, misfortune has temporarily forbidden access to this region. Your safety is very important."

Scott paused in his descent, waiting for the cat to go on. Only… it didn't. So, he said,

"Assuming I'm speaking to the Yamato Space Port control system, here? Indicate 'yes' with one flicker, 'no' with two."

The black holo-cat blinked out and came back, once. So, yes.

"Okay," Scott replied. "And you know that I'm here to help?"

Another one-blink flicker. So far, so good.

"But, you have only a couple of pre-recorded messages?" Scott hazarded, working things out. Once again, he got a single-blink _yes._

"You're trying to warn me about something?"

 _Yes._

On a sudden hunch, he asked,

"Havok and Fuse are back in action? Threatening the others?"

This time, there was a brief pause, as though neither yes or no was quite the right answer. Then,

 _Yes._

The assent-flicker was followed by a projected image of Fuse, wide awake and clearly pissed-off. The huge, armoured youth stood facing down Rigby, while Dr. Reeves moved to cover Havok, who seemed to be frozen, still. Scott nodded.

"Right. Thanks. I'll be very careful, and take the back way in. Can you show me a route that'll get me to Rigby and the Doctor, without alerting anyone else?" Because the Yamato tower bristled with cameras, and the demonstration chamber was lined with floating view screens.

A holographic map formed in the still air before Scott, showing his present location, and the few floors between himself and all of that 'misfortune'. There was a route marked out in red, which he guessed would avoid the space port's omnipresent security cams. Scott memorized it. Then, glancing across the stairwell at his friendly neighborhood guard-cat, he said,

"Any distractions you can provide would be really welcome, Yamato. Better keep the Defense Force at bay, too. Until I get Havok and Fuse back under control, the fewer potential victims, the better."

The black holo-cat flickered once more, and then vanished, leaving Scott Tracy to resume his trek, this time following a memorized, back-access route.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Down below, in the big, circular demo chamber-_

Their situation wasn't just bad. It had plunged straight through to red-hot critical, and Rigby wasn't sure what to do. All around him, floating holo-screens showed images from inside the tower, and out in the city. He never noticed when those scenes shifted into a constant, five-minute loop. Too busy.

The Survivor was out of the fight, reduced to no more than an olive-drab wrist tattoo. Captain Rigby was still suffering the disorientation of being brought back to life, meanwhile. He was wobbly, yet; as though his brain had to re-learn its new body, _every single darn time._ Doctor Reeves was in better shape, but just a regular, skinny, smart guy. The one you wanted _behind_ the meat-wall, not out in front, catching flak.

Fuse could've finished them off with a punch and a half, maybe, but he was too worried for Havok to just start swinging.

"Wot's wrong wiv 'er?!" he bellowed, starting forward; fists clenched and chest heaving.

Tycho blinked and took a step backward, but stayed between the behemoth and his stasis-locked sister.

"Nothing," he insisted. "It's just a medical stasis-patch, meant to arrest the progress of injury, death or disease."

In retrospect, perhaps "arrest" was the wrong choice of words. Fuse's dark eyes narrowed. There was something very different about him. As if being reconstructed had undone some kind of damage.

"Get out o' my way, Pretty, or I'll break you in 'alf," he snarled, inching forward. Rigby was moving, too, circling Fuse for a better angle; one that risked less harm to Reeves's device. The Channeler lifted one metal-clad foot, slightly.

"I c'n bring this 'ole buildin' down on top of us," he threatened. "Me an' 'Avok 'll walk away. You two 'll trickle out from the rubble, like used-ta-be-hero strawberry jam."

But he didn't stomp that foot. Didn't summon the power that damaged his brain like electrical bullets and psionic booze.

"You're not just walking away from this," Rigby snapped in response. "You've killed thousands of people, Fuse. You and your sister are known associates of the Hood. You're going to face justice, once and for all."

The big-muscled youth shrugged, setting his purple armour to rattling.

"'Ard way it is, then," he grunted, pivoting suddenly to lunge at that slow-stalking blond Marine. "I'll find out 'ow many times you c'n be brung back, before ya _stays_ dead, Boy Scout."

In the swift meantime, Tycho had ripped a fire extinguisher off of his newly repaired apparatus. Now he unlocked, aimed and fired the thing. A long stream of ultra-cold, expanding white foam shot forth, striking Fuse right on the side of his grimacing face. Half blinded, the young giant howled a string of blistering curses, and clawed at his eyes. Reeves fired again, this time aiming the foam-stream down at his booted feet. Fuse staggered and slipped on the stuff, flailing wildly. He fell to the tiled floor an instant later, crashing down with a noise like a dump-truck unloading.

Rigby leapt away, as Tycho's control of that hissing extinguisher jet was pretty shaky. Quick thinking, though, for a civilian. Lunging halfway across the room, Wayne slapped the blinking red "summon security" wall button.

The tower's public-safety bots reacted at once, rolling up into balls to race for the demonstration chamber. Then, the entire room filled with holographic cats, each of them verbally anxious to lead a guest safely away. It was impossible to see clearly through that glowing fog of light-sculpted felines.

For several long minutes, Rigby, Reeves and Fuse could only guess at each other's location by listening for curses, grunts and jetting foam. Not easy to hear, through that chorus of chiming guide-cats and suddenly blasting music.

Fuse… did the smart thing. Heart pounding, feeling more like himself that he had since they'd got those bloody implants, the Channeler fell silent, turning inward and scanning the room for his frozen sister. Found her, stayed low, and made his scrabbling way over. The giant's eyes stung, half-closed by chemical foam, but his implants showed him a sort of fuzzy, sound-echo picture of what lay around him. Heartbeat and a half, maybe, before Fuse reached Havok. Like a statue she was, hard and cold to the touch. Fuse clamped a big, armoured hand over her mouth, then tore off that stasis patch (which were right on her face).

Scott Tracy raced into the big, chaotic room from a maintenance access door, seconds later; just in time for Havok's first bomb.


	13. Chapter 13

Hey, guys. =) Thank you for your reviews and comments. Will respond directly, I promise. Helping my daughter to pack for Japan. Edits! :')

 **13**

 _Thunderbird 4, down in the deepest ocean, near Pacifica City-_

Gordon Tracy's broad circuit of the domed research station had won him plenty of scan data. His own two eyes provided still more. Through a veil of black water and drifting, gelatinous creatures, he saw the listing station, perched unsteadily at the edge of a massive undersea cliff, on her six, spidery legs. One of these had begun to buckle alarmingly, tilting the city sharply at that yawning crevasse. Great place to do some science, maybe; not so good for undersea tourists... and _he_ wasn't there to sight-see. In cases like these, Virgil would say: _Prioritize._

"Right," Gordon murmured, hazel eyes fixed on that station, and crumbling trench. "Eight-hundred-plus people, one rescue sub, fourteen emergency floats. Job one: mate shields."

Charlie and Scruff listened closely, learning strength and calm in the face of disaster. Learning how to be Tracys _._

"Okay, Virge," said the sandy-blond aquanaut, passing a message up through the comm buoy. "I've got the updated schematics, and I can see where to place my emergency floats. Need those GDF rescue boats, though… ASA- _Fast._ Entering the pressure shield, now."

Neat trick, that; requiring him to scan the force bubble's frequency and match it, precisely. Then, when his shielding and that of Pacifica City met, they just flowed together, with the faintest of gem-like shimmers. Caused a brief staticky sensation inside, too; lifting hair on heads and fur on biodroid rabbits. Then, they were in, and Thunderbird 4 got to work.

Closer to, Gordon could see faint sparkles of reddish energy throughout the undersea station. John's _other_ AI buddy, maybe? Whatever, it seemed to be holding Pacifica City together, somehow.

"Awesome," grunted the swimmer, needing all the help he could get.

Deploying 4's clawed grappling arms, Gordon began the process of setting floats. He had fourteen of the things, which had to be placed just so. Set correctly, the floats would shore up that buckling leg, and keep the station from sliding into a trench so deep that it ended in diamond-pocked mantle. (He'd explored it once, on a lark.) Set wrongly, the explosive floats could rip that city apart.

A delicate, careful business, which Charlie watched, but did not disturb. No questions or comments. Just wide brown eyes, and forever-memories. Things were looking good, at first. Three floats set, eleven to go, when everything fell apart.

Get any four witnesses… Gordon, Chip, Virgil or Penny… to describe events, and you'd get a different story, every time. And, that wasn't counting Eos, Jaeger, or John. But, it kind of went this way, from Gordon's perspective: An incoming message pinged his Bird. Not from Virgil, but straight out of Thunderbird 5. Surprised, because most signals required boosting to reach this far underwater, Gordon opened a channel.

His entire board lit up, then, because that incoming packet was _huge._ Only, something was happening down at the city, as well. Just about the same time that Virgil called down with,

"Gordon, what the h*ll's going on, down there?!"

…a burst of brilliantly-glowing force rose from inside the dome. Upside-down-cone-shaped, and bright as the sun at high noon. No color, and all of them. Through it, squinting through a face shield set at maximum block, the aquanaut could have sworn that he glimpsed blue sky, and a shattered city, with stumpy towers like the teeth in a leering Jack-o-lantern. See, the cone's base appeared to be some kind of transport window, about five-hundred feet in diameter.

The 'message', too big to open or read, jumped onward, just as that burst of force shot through the sub. Like a direct lightning strike, it took out the yellow Bird's guidance and power. Worse, the effect slashed up through the comm buoy, too, hitting Thunderbird 2, as well.

All at once, the little sub was crippled and drifting, headed right for that wavering, city-scape portal. Upstairs, in Thunderbird 2, Virgil's instrument panel went suddenly dark. His floodlights and comm flickered, then vanished, leaving the pilot in total blackness and silence. The comforting, musical roar of his engines (G-sharp major) cut off, too, as a massive depression appeared in the heaving water, below. All at once powerless, the giant cargo-lifter tumbled down out of the sky like a rock.

Virgil Tracy slammed the restart button about ten times in three seconds, hard enough to crack the instrument panel. Didn't call 'mayday'. Didn't have time. There was nothing but sky in his viewscreen, as the tail-heavy, pod-less Bird spiraled downward. He was crashing, and he knew it. Hit the distress beacon with one hand, and then inflated 2's own set of emergency floats, on the off chance she didn't break up on hitting the water. Never considered bailing out on his Big Girl. Not once.

From John's perspective, things developed a little bit differently. Giant sewer rats turned out to be really susceptible to cufflink laser blasts. Seriously, had he or the Pendergasts been hungry enough, John could have used that high-powered laser to carve steaks and chops. Only, not just no, but _h*ll,_ no. He'd cheerfully starve, first.

Anyhow, along with a few other neat gadgets, John was pretty well armed. Not so he wanted to meet that mythical subway croc, though.

"Listen," he'd said to the grinning, muddy explorers, once the last of those seared, shrieking rats scrabbled off, "How about we _track_ the crocodile, instead of just waiting around? I mean… she could be out in the ocean nearby, hunting another shark. Wouldn't want to miss _that,_ would you?"

Buddy and Ellie had looked at each other, communicating in that wordless eyebrow-and-smile code that long-married couples develop. Mom and Dad 'd had it, too. John remembered that. Then, Buddy turned to grin at him.

"Too right, Bluey! 'Erself might be engaged in a fight t' th' death f'r survival, right now!"

Ellie was already gathering up their portable gear and supplies; stuffing it into a pair of tan canvas rucksacks.

"No time t' wait," she agreed, her blue eyes wide and feverish-bright. "This is going t' be our most excitin' season, _ever."_

She did not look well. For that matter, neither did Buddy, who needed several rest breaks, as they clambered up that smooth, muddy slipway. John slowed his pace without making a big deal out of it. See, the weaponised mix of pathogens that had hit New York City at the end of the conflicts included rabies, super-flu, and the so-called "slave-virus". Nasty stuff, leaving its victims alternately wild, debilitated and easy to control. Most of the damage, here, had been self-inflicted, as an entire city went mad.

John mentioned none of this. Just, as they climbed, slipped, grunted and boosted each other upward, he watched the Pendergasts closely. Himself, too. He'd never been sick (except once, and that one had killed him… long story) but this sh*t was different, and if he'd got it, too, his thinking was going to get fuzzy, fast.

Not the Pendergasts. Buddy and Ellie just got sweeter, slower and weaker; seeing signs of that stupid croc, literally _everywhere._

"Crikey! 'Ave a look at them claw marks, Ellie! Get a shot o' that! Bluey, stand up right beside 'em, so's we c'n establish 'ow 'igh off the ground they are!"

…stuff like that. Or,

"Holy Dooley! Would you _look_ at that scat 'eap!"

…which, okay, was the size of an aircar, but it might have been communal rat-dung, for all John knew. Nothing to get all worked up over, right? Especially when they were being followed by tiny red eyes and lamp-glinting teeth.

One way or another, John kept them all moving, until they came at last to the slipway's branch-screened entrance. Fresher air, scratching greenery, filtered light… just a little bit over their heads. Well, not like he hadn't boosted Scott and Virgil over plenty of fences, back in the day…

"You first," he said to Buddy, "then Ellie. I'll bring up the rear. Stay in the entrance, until I join you, understood?"

Two solemn nods told him: _yes._ More tired than he should have been, John got to work, stooping down and making a cradle of his hands, so that Buddy could place a muddy foot in, and get launched up topside.

"Cooee!" whispered the older man, peering around, after John pushed him up and out of the hole. "That's a sight an' a half, it is. Careful, Luv… watch y'r step."

Because, they'd emerged in what _had_ been some kind of wide square, or city centre. Beautiful, once, the place was an utter ruin, now. Dangerous, too.

John came up last, kicking at something too bold and inquisitive to stay in the shadows. Got scratched, but not badly.

Wasn't sure how much charge he had left on those cufflinks. Brains had harnessed particles vibrating in extra dimensions, to power the laser, and his special "lift shoes", but they'd never been tested to capacity. The astronaut wasted some juice, now, convincing his hungry friend that Tracys were not on the menu that day.

Next, he leapt upward, taking Buddy's hands as he used just a little lift-power to get himself out of the slipway. Got maybe a three-second look around at complete and utter devastation; at fallen signs, collapsed buildings, streets choked with rusted ground cars, and a crashed plane.

Radioactive nature was taking over the place. Weird, mutant plants (some of them grabby) wove through it all, giving shelter to smaller, scuttling things. It was daytime, at least, and sort of cold.

Ellie started to shiver, so Buddy put an arm across her shoulders, drawing her close. Not all of her shaking was due to the weather, though.

"Wot 'appened here, Buddy? I mean… I knew there was conflicts… an' places no one's meant t' go, but…"

"'Ow could all this 'ave 'appened, less 'n forty years ago?" the dark-haired explorer finished for her. Good question.

Something odd was happening, up above them. Some kind of weird sky-ripple. Distracted, John said what he shouldn't have. What was worth his life, mind and freedom to admit that he knew.

"Wasn't forty years. They've been lying about the date, and how bad things got."

Both weary, confused explorers stared at John, expecting more. Only, that's when the ripple expanded, opening up like a giant dark eye in the smudgy blue sky overhead.

"Umm…" said John, changing the subject. _"Run."_


	14. Chapter 14

Hi, guys. Bit rough, will edit. It's been quite a day, but at least I've discovered "Flight Aware"... Thank you, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Thunderbird Shadow, Susan and Akimakel, for reading and reviewing. I am tremendously grateful for you. Edited more! =)

 **14**

 _Tracy Island, on a wild and windy tropical night-_

Insight number one: body cams were not helpful, when everything was going crazy at once, and you were too far away from your brothers to help. Insight B: The New Crew had trouble sitting still and just watching, as Scott, Virgil and Gordon plunged into terrible danger. They'd lunged forward, reflexively reaching for those holo-vid scenes, trying to pull their friends and mentors out of danger. Didn't work, of course, so… rather than face those awful video feeds alone… Jan, Cody, Caleb and Josh came over to the desk.

Not that Alan was having any better luck. With John still missing, Brains downstairs building a transport device of his own, and Dad fighting to take control of a fritzing Thunderbird 5, he and Piper were on their own (and way out of their depth).

Grandma could have helped, except that about ten minutes earlier, she and Zara had loudly pretended to 'find' Charlie. ("There y' are, ya rascal! Inta th' tub, right this minute!") They could not appear on family holo-cam without him. So, yeah… for the moment, no help from the island's coolest head.

On the bright side, though they gathered close, to peer past him at those flickering body-cam images, the 'Thunder-kids' didn't ask questions or make much noise. Just watched, expecting miracles. At one point, Caleb Gonzalez… Gordon's skinny, freckled alternate… mumbled,

"Going down to the lab, Guys. I, uh… could maybe help Mr. Brain with his new transporter."

Alan barely noticed. Too busy.

"Uh-huh," he replied, nodding assent without turning around. He hated like heck to call for help, but the sudden flash and static on Scott's cam, that weird glow over Gordon's, and the cuss-filled darkness from Virgil's didn't leave him with much choice. Didn't mean he had to bother Colonel Casey, though. Hitting the family all-call button, Alan pled,

"Kayo, Uncle Lee… John, if you can hear me… we got three major situations developing. Need you guys back, like, _now."_

Zara had emerged from the bathroom, where Grandma was still making all the usual "bath-battle" noises. Worried and rather damp, the pretty blonde girl came to join Alan's audience.

"Mrs. Tracy will be along very shortly," she informed them all. "Just as soon as wee Charles is tucked up safe and dry in his bed."

"Uh-huh, thanks," was the only response she got. Zara didn't ask about Gordon, though her big blue eyes kept drifting to Thunderbird 4's cam feed.

Elsewhere, Kayo was first to reply to Al's all-call. Still wouldn't turn on her body-cam, though.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird Shadow. I'm on my way, Alan," she told him.

"Copy that, thanks, Kayo," Alan blurted, adding, hopefully, "ETA?"

"Thirty minutes, give or take. I've been, erm… busy." (Kayo-code for breaking and entering, for a good cause.)

He didn't ask where she was. Probably better not to know; for him _and_ the GDF.

"Okay, just… hurry, alright? We've got trouble in Kyoto and Pacifica City. Whichever you could reach first, if you're closer there, than you are to the Island…"

"I'll see what I can do," his sister replied, still being cagey as heck. "Let you know what I find, once I'm onsite. Send me the danger zone coordinates."

Alan did so, just as Captain Taylor called in with,

"You boys need a hand, down there, Alvin?"

He was out on the Moon, performing scheduled maintenance on "Alphy", but family came first, always.

"Yessir! I'm going to launch, just as soon as Grandma can take my place at the desk. Dad's sorta busy, still…"

"It's under control, Alan," snapped the Colonel, who hated to seem like he needed help. His son might have believed him; only his voice kept blinking in and out, as the station repeatedly shut down and restarted itself. Off in the background, Al could hear cleaning bots and detergent jets, churning away like mad. Having been through it with Eos, himself, Alan winced.

"Yessir. Understood, Sir."

On the bright side, help was on its way, if only his brothers could hold out a little longer. It was around that time, that they got a wisp of a signal from John.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, plunging straight for the dark Pacific-_

Power outage, that was all. He'd been through it a thousand times in Sim; twice before, in real life. He could handle this.

One thing Tracys never did was panic. Goddam waste of time, and dangerous, too. Instead of screaming for help, as his Bird spiraled tail-downward, Virgil got busy. Routing problems, he figured. That power surge had to have fried some circuits. There was _another_ wiring system, though; meant to handle the rescue carrier's laser and sonic blaster attachments.

Thinking fast and fighting vertigo, Virgil shifted engine feed from primary circuits to 'appliance' network. Had to rip loose a panel, quick-strip a pair of wires with his teeth, and then pinch them together with one hand, but 2's engines received that restart signal, and roared back to sudden life. Almost, he lost his grip on the wires (performing a reflexive air-punch). Yeah… that would have been bad. Didn't happen, though; no matter what his body-cam showed.

Only just, he didn't crash. Helped that the ocean down below had caved itself into a bowl-shaped whirlpool, giving Virgil a scant hundred extra yards of clearance. All that seawater was going somewhere else, fast, which meant that it wasn't right under _him._ Undersea landslide, maybe?

Thunderbird 2's mighty engines lofted her up and out of that spiraling plunge, making the loudest, most beautiful music he'd ever heard. The entire aircraft shuddered with strain as she clawed her way upward, then back into level, safe flight. No cockpit lights or comm, and sh*t for instrumentation, but the body-cam was still working, and he had some steering.

"Okay… I'm okay," Virgil panted, unclenching by slow degrees. Managed to get those two wires twisted together, with a few savagely fast thumb-and-forefinger rubs. Cut himself in the process, but it had to be done. Too difficult to fly with just one hand. Heart was pounding a thousand miles a minute, but the only thought in his head, now, was for Gordon.

"Don't know if you can hear me, Kiddo, but it's all good, up here. Need your situation update, right the h*ll _now_."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 4, being swept along with a tidal wave of transported water-_

That circle of bluish, wavery sky and snapped buildings was so close that only five minutes, maybe three, stood between Thunderbird 4 and a very long drop. No power, no steering, no comm, but…

"Chip?" Gordon said aloud, after cutting off his body cam.

"Yeah, Dad?" the boy asked, too sure of Gordon's awesomeness to be worried.

"Can you speed us up, relative to everything else? Make the water thicker, or something?"

Because what he chiefly needed was time, in order to fix whatever was wrong with the Seabird. Charlie nodded rapidly, eager to help. All at once, as the boy screwed up his face in concentration, Thunderbird 4 seemed to freeze in place; trapped like a fly in slowly hardening amber. Sounds changed, too, growing deeper and slower, like the thoughts of a wintery redwood forest.

Gordon smiled at his small, intent stowaway, reaching out to muss the boy's straight, light brown hair.

"Good work, Kiddo. _My_ turn."

Unstrapping to rise, the aquanaut vaulted out of his seat and lunged aft. Spared half a thought upstairs, as he keyed open 4's mechanical access panel. Wires fried… connections shorted out… but nothing he couldn't fix. Hopefully, Virgil was in better shape, above, and was getting a similar time-bonus, if he needed it.

"Luck, Bro," Gordon murmured, before plunging into that access panel, almost up to his waist.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Kyoto, Japan, at around the same time-_

Only thing was, Havok had more than one sort of bomb. There were the "crowd pleasers", meant to spread destruction and panic… and there was the "clear a path" sort, for when she needed a quick, flashy exit. Noise and smoke, mostly, with an ultra-bright cross-spectrum flare thrown in, to blind eyesight and sensors.

Thanks to that bloody stasis-patch, she'd popped straight from fight to chaos, but Fuse was safe, and he'd touch-scanned the transport disk. Schematics ought to sell for nearly as much as the machine, itself, Havok figured. That's why the girl was content just to summon their cloaked cruiser, and beat a hasty retreat.

Scott Tracy came charging into the demo chamber just as she flipped her "noisemaker" at the newly repaired transport disk. Heartbeat-and-a-half after that, the Chaos Cruiser smashed its way through the nearest window-wall, sending slivers of perma-glass flying in every direction. Havok would have liked to stay and see the look on Tracy's face… if he still had one… but a smart girl knew when to cut her losses and scarper. This was def one of those situations. Didn't mean she couldn't have a bit of fun, though.

"Better luck, next time, Hero!" Havok taunted, as Fuse leapt with her, into the Cruiser's open and waiting main hatch.


	15. Chapter 15

Good news to report! My daughter is safely arrived in Japan! :') Enjoying herself at a Pokémon event in Tokyo, too. Anyhow, it's sort of quiet, over here. Plenty of time to write, huh? Thank you, my friends, for putting up with my somewhat meandering tales. I write what comes, y'know? Edited!

 **15**

 _Blazing away from Kyoto, Japan, in the swift and disguised Chaos Cruiser-_

They'd got an offer right out of the gate. Literally, as her brother took the controls and flew like a focused maniac, Havok had no sooner put up her goods… full schematics for the Reeves Transport Device… than somebody bit.

Kept his identity to himself, of course; with electronic distortion masking voice and figure, but the offer was more than generous. Twice what she'd been hoping for, actually. That, in itself, made the girl rather wary.

"You realize… you'll not be getting' the ruddy device, just th' plans t' construct one," she'd pointed out over engine and wind noise, as Japan dropped away and behind in their wake.

"I am aware," he'd replied; his voice a low, digitally-altered rumble. "And I expect to be the _only_ recipient of those plans, at the price I am offering."

Havok considered, while her implants cleaned up excess adrenaline, and healed minor hurts. Whatever. Figured she could make a backup copy, wait a bit, and then sell _that,_ but her mysterious client seemed to have anticipated this plan.

"You have exactly one chance to play straight with me," he growled, over the Cruiser's comm projector. "Construct your own device, or attempt to sell those plans again, and I will know what you've done. There is no place on Earth or in space that can hide you, if I decide that you need to be killed."

Hmm… an assassin, maybe? Well, he couldn't be all _that_ good, Havok reasoned. She scowled, causing some of the healing cuts on her face to flex and sting.

"Right, then. In that case, I want more money." She told him. "But I'll sweeten th' deal f'r you, too. What d'ya say t' two f'r one? My sib was able t' touch-scan Thunderbird 3, not long past. Fancy a set of complete plans f'r a bleedin' International Rescue craft?"

"Exclusive?" demanded the buyer, sounding suspicious. Havok pictured him as a big-time industrial magnate, or one of them dirty politicians what fattened themselves on diverted public funds. "I would need to be the only buyer for _that,_ as well."

"Exclusive," she promised, nearly meaning it. After all, profit was profit. "For three-hundred-fifty-five million."

A steep asking price, but birds had evolved to be plucked, and a lass had to make a living. She glanced once at Fuse, busy at the controls, but her brother only shrugged.

"Let's get what we can, an' be quit of it," he told her, making ready to download the data by retracting one of his purple alloy gloves. "Whut we doesn't 'ave, they won't chase us for."

Good advice, and maybe she ought to have listened; only, money talked louder than sense, sometimes. Especially when you'd grown up rough and hard, scrappin' f'r bloody near _everything._ Anyroad, Havok figured she saw a way t' have her cake, and eat it with sprinkles, too. The client said,

"Three-hundred-fifty-five million. Both sets of schematics, completely exclusive. Do we have a deal?"

Seeing nothing just then but healing and retirement, with maybe an asteroid-dome estate thrown into the bargain, Havok agreed, saying,

"Deal. Open a channel, Guvnor, an' my sib 'll download th' plans. Funds t' be transferred at th' same time, or we cancels transmission, directly."

They'd been soaring high over the arctic circle, crossing the North Pole on their way back to Europe. Passed back into daylight, at some point; its dim glow casting long blue shadows on the tormented ice-field, below.

Now, as their mark opened his download channel, Havok split the signal; part to the buyer, and a copy to storage. Sent him their transaction account number, too, while Fuse pressed an ungloved hand to the comm's transfer plate. You know… same as _you_ would, when sealing any modern electronic deal.

Didn't take but an eyeblink, because the implants that 'enhanced' Havok and Fuse made even _that_ happen faster. Mere second or two, it was, from everything normal… 'stone the crows, we're gonna be rich'… to a sudden, violent explosion, as the Chaos Cruiser came blasting apart in midair.

XXXXXXXXX

 _Manhattan Island, on a chilly and bleak afternoon-_

'Run', was a relative term, when the ground you were crossing was littered with rubble, crashed vehicles and predatory vines. Might have been better stated as: _proceed at best speed through an obstacle course, while infected by God-knows-what, and encumbered with useless camera gear._ Didn't matter which direction, because most of those derelict buildings were stumpy and broken, the streets between them all but erased.

Seemed like a good idea to seek altitude, though, so John shouldered Ellie's equipment bag, shoving her and Buddy, both, toward the least dilapidated structure in the area. Tall and quite narrow, it projected above all that destruction like a glass-and-concrete axe-blade. Just a few hundred yards away to the north. Easy, right?

As that dark, rippling circle yawned wider overhead, they slip-scramble-lunged their way across corroded wreckage and fallen girders, raising clouds of rusty flakes, and laser-chopping that hungry forest of lashing vines, as they went. Every step landed on glass, bone and mortar, or sent them crashing through the rusted roof of another stalled ground-car. Would have gone faster, had Buddy not kept trying to dig out his video-cam. John took _that_ bag, too, and half-tackled the woozy explorer, forcing both Pendergasts to keep moving.

The sky-gate was still expanding, he saw, centered directly over their abandoned subway tunnel. Could have been random chance, but John didn't believe in coincidence. The transport device. It had to be.

Redoubling his speed, the tall astronaut hurried onward. Heard mostly his own hoarse breathing, along with rattling vine-pods, and Buddy's daft travelogue. The explorer seemed determined to describe everything around them, as though on the air, all the d*mn time. Ellie added her fever-struck bit as well, leaving John to clear their path with laser slashes and just plain muscle.

"'Ere, in th' shattered remains o' downtown Manhattan, I'll risk my life t' find out th' truth o' what 'appened. 'Ang on, Mates, f'r a season y'll never f'rget!"

"Too right, Buddy!" chirped his lovely blonde wife. "The action's only just started!" (And, so on.)

Anyhow, John got them to shelter, shortly before that weird dark circle flashed like a giant strobe, releasing thousands… millions… of metric tons of cold, thundering water. Yeah. At that point, 'run' became 'climb'. The noise passed comprehension. Water didn't normally drop that hard, from that great a distance, onto a graveyard of metal, glass and broken stone. Air pressure and noise like that could take away all ability to think in words. The h*ll with season thirteen. John seized a Pendergast in each arm, kicked his way through a cracked glass wall, found a broad, rust-frozen escalator, and ran for it; taking two steps at a time. The roar outside grew even louder, as surging dark water ploughed up that vine-laced wreckage and flung it, hard. Repeated thumps and slams shook their truncated building to its foundations.

On the bright side, Brains' miraculous party suit had some impressive exo-gear talents. It could use that same multi-dimensional particle energy, and lock right onto his limbs, enhancing John's strength and endurance still further. Nine flights of rubble-choked stairs called that a good thing.

See, the building was hollow at its center, with many balconies opening onto a big central square. John kept just ahead of the surging water, sometimes flinging the Pendergasts in front of him, just to get them up higher. Sprained Buddy's left wrist that way, but there wasn't time to talk, or offer apologies; only _move._

When the noise finally stopped, when they'd climbed as high as they could on that partly-amputated skyscraper… nowhere left to run, no farther to climb… John at last dropped his stunned cargo.

They were up… dunno… eleventh or twelfth floor, maybe? With jagged shards of plateglass window forming castle-like crenellations, and a flooded city, down below. Other buildings rose from the water like islands, here and there, but most had succumbed; crumbling away as if they'd been built out of sand. Smelt like the ocean, and rust. Sounded like muted thrumming and rumbles, with occasional toppling crashes thrown in. Gordon might have liked it, but John 'd had more than enough of d*mn water.

Buddy and Ellie shivered and coughed as they captured some big-money footage of downtown Manhattan at rush hour. John simply looked around, wondering if that portal really _was_ connected to Dr. Reeves' transport machine, and if it would open, again. Because, if so… Well, there wasn't any higher they could climb. And, as for braving those unsettled, wreckage-fanged waters…

"Buddy, look there!" Ellie gasped, pointing out at 'Lake Manhattan'. A sudden ripple had troubled its surface, making a long, V-shaped eddy.

"Crikey…" whispered the dark-haired explorer, his bloodshot eyes wide with delighted amazement. "Th' Salty. It _'as_ ta be!"

But John shook his red head and went right back to searching the skies.

"School of fish," he said, dismissively. "There are no giant sewer crocs in New York City, trust me."

Had a lot on his mind, because a distress signal might bring his family running, but would most likely summon GDF Security. And, since they were trapped in a no-fly, no-go quarantine zone, unwanted attention would end _all_ of their problems, the hard and permanent way. That's why John _looked_ at his wrist comm but didn't much use it. Not beyond a lone, rapid signal. Needed Plan B, instead; right the h*ll _now._

Down below lay stark, restless water and tumbling wreckage. On the horizon, in every direction, a gap-toothed madman's grin of broken concrete and twisted girders. Overhead… cloud-stippled skies, and one of those big, clunky pollution sweepers, making its rounds. Staring at the clattering, gourd-like thing, John started to get an idea. (He genuinely functioned best under pressure.)

Then, the astronaut heard what he'd been dreading all along; the low, hornet-like buzz of a GDF seeker-drone.


	16. Chapter 16

Back, with a little bit more. Guess everyone knows that I don't own them, though they DO occupy a great deal of cranial real-estate. ;) Thank you for reading and reviewing, guys. Your ideas inspire me.

 **16**

 _Kyoto, Japan, in the Yamato Tower's lofty demonstration chamber-_

Scott Tracy had run full-tilt into another d*mn bomb. Mostly flash-bang, but still pretty bad. Helmet and bodysuit saved his life, as a searing glare, stone-shattering noise and sledgehammer concussion flung him right back into the stairwell, like somebody's cast-off toy. Was unconscious for a minute or two, at most, Scott figured. Hard to be certain, as his heads-up display had vanished, along with all but a few tiny sparkles of light.

Sounds were muted, as well, which seemed unlikely to Scott. Conclusion: he'd been partially blinded and deafened, with the status of Rigby and Dr. Reeves uncertain. _Dammit!_ He hurt everywhere; couldn't see, couldn't hear… and still had to deal with the Chaos Crew.

Was lying crumpled up on what felt like the maintenance stairs, unsure of direction. Too much vertigo to simply get up. So, instead, Scott began patting himself down and counting limbs. Sudden movement made him throw up, which was a bad idea, inside of his helmet. On the brighter side, he hadn't eaten in… Well, he couldn't recall his last meal, but all that came up was thin, sour bile. Legs and arms were all present and accounted for, though. That was something.

After a few seconds, he tried again to get up. Worked about as well as you'd think, without vision or a sense of direction to guide him. He had to feel around for the railing and stairs, reaching out for anything solid, at all. He'd managed a crouch, was halfway to standing, when a pair of armed security drones crowded close and sedated him. After that, things got rough.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Earlier, Pacifica City, slightly above the flooded ballroom-_

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward did not panic. Wasn't in her. Never had been. When that first brilliant flash half emptied the chamber below, she simply leant through the opened panel, and called John's name. Would have leapt in after him, had Parker not restrained her.

"Milady, H-I must h-advise against plungin' back down there. 'Is Majesty and 'Er Grace needs you t' lead them t' safety. H- _I'll_ go in h-after Mr. John."

Much of the water and part of that shark had entirely vanished, as the beam of his patented multi-tool showed them. Penny bit her lip briefly, and then nodded.

"Very well, Parker. I shall escort His Majesty and the Duchess to a position of greater safety, leaving you here, with our guest. I shall expect you and John to join us, directly."

Parker smiled, rendering an already homely face rather less than half as attractive as it had been.

"That's th' spirit, Milady. Remember th' family motto."

Penny smiled back, whispering,

 _"First in battle, First in Honour, Faithful to the last…._ Or, as Clarence would have it, 'Always scrapping, ever boasting, far too stupid to run'." And then, she laughed just a little, dabbing at foolish tears. Rather inanely, she added, crouching there in the cold, dark maintenance crawlspace, "I miss Clarence, and Scott… and Dear, stubborn John."

"You'll see 'em h-again, Milady," promised her driver, tugging a wrinkle out of the white tuxedo jacket she'd borrowed from her red-haired astronaut 'lure'. "Just keep t' th' task that's h-in front o' you."

Penelope nodded determinedly, listening as the domed city settled and creaked all around them.

"Very good, Parker. Onward," she said.

They parted company there and then; Her Ladyship taking the multi-tool, while Parker lowered himself through the opened panel, hung there a moment, then dropped away into darkness.

"Be safe," Penny whispered after her old friend and protector. Then, straightening as well as she could in that cramped, musty space, she turned and took charge of those bleary, half-frozen others.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, at around the same time-_

Alan Tracy was crazy busy; part of his mind on those staticky body-cam screens, most on Thunderbird 1, which he'd had to take off of autopilot. Tough combination, but he'd faced worse in simulation, and Piper was there to help out, watching the cams, while Al shifted rubble and hunted survivors.

Finally, Grandma emerged from Charlie's room, having carried a towel-wrapped bundle quite firmly from tub into bed, talking and singing nursery rhymes, the whole time. As there were no GDF cameras in the bathrooms, bedrooms or private halls, the ruse was pretty effective. (Mostly because Alan was still screwing around with reception, on top of everything else.)

Anyways, she came out of the former guest room at last, having told a quick story and whispered a bedtime prayer, just like always. Then, placing a light, slender hand on Alan's shoulder, Sally Tracy commanded,

"Go on, Sprout. Y'r brothers need ya."

Alan just about vaulted out of the desk chair, signaling Piper to follow him.

"Which situation, Grandma? Where do I go, first?" Because, _dang…_ they were all in trouble: Scott, in Kyoto, Virgil and Gordon, at Pacifica City, and John, up northeast, somewheres. (He'd picked up a signal... sort of. Real brief, real quiet, and NOT in Pacifica City.)

Sally frowned momentarily, brushing a strand of silvery hair from her face.

"Lee 'll be here, afore ya know it. He's th' one ta head f'r Pacifica City, 'cause he c'n handle th' most passengers, in Thunderbird P. Kayo 'll help Scott deal with that mess in Japan. So… follow th' power surge, Sprout, an' find them lost explorers." John Matthew would just have to wait, wherever he was.

Alan nodded, and kissed his grandmother's cheek, though she brushed him off like a fly; ashamed of the tears that were stinging the back of her eyes.

"Hurry," she snapped. Then, turning back to those tense recruits, she singled out Jan. "Come here an' sit down, Girl. Y'r about ta fly y'r first mission."

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Shortly thereafter, in an Antarctic mountain stronghold-_

Nikorr Kyrano sat back, allowing his desktop holo-globe to go dim. The after-glow of that violent explosion still flared in his memory, bringing intense satisfaction. Not because the stupid, greedy child was dead… she wasn't, yet… but because he'd acquired valuable tech, in such a way as to 'frame' the Tracy's most dangerous, blood-thirsty ally.

Something had happened between Kane and the Kyranos, back in that otherwhen, before the destruction of an alien derelict had altered time. Something which could only be scrubbed out with blood. Despite all the shifts, Nikorr remembered the deaths of his people, the stronghold's ruin, and Kane's theft of Sentinel. Now, the Mechanic had attached himself to the Tracys and Tanusha (one of Niko's own kind). A problem, that one; she troubled him with her mongrel-stench and perplexing attractiveness.

Restlessly, Nikorr looked around at his chamber, taking in the rough-carved black walls and polished stone floors. He had never craved luxury. Just security for his people. Safety from a world government determined to hunt down and enslave them all. Against single targets, the Kyranos were quite powerful, but faced with the massed might of a billion Typicals, they could not remain free for long. The situation could only end in conflict. A fight that he meant to control.

To that end, Nikorr had begun to make plans. Tiny moves, in and of themselves, but very important, when seen as a whole. First, he'd psionically "pushed" the Dos Santos to leave his young, fragile son with the Tracys. Second, he'd planted a seed of confused searching in Tanusha, his stolen cousin. Third, he'd acquired Transport tech, _and_ plans for a Thunderbird. Next… slowly, inexorably… he would drive an irreversible wedge between Kane and International Rescue. After that, when all was arranged to his liking, Kyrano would bring down the World Council _and_ their Tracy pawns, forever.

Nikorr nodded, returning his gaze to the plain wooden desktop. He was a handsome young man, dark-haired and green-eyed, like all of his people, and a powerful psion, besides. The girl… Havok… had never stood a chance. Under Kyrano's influence, she'd destroyed the original transport device and blown up her own aircraft; never realising that the "mark" was reading her traitorous thoughts. Controlling her movements.

Well, perhaps she'd survive to learn better. Made very little difference to Niko. All that mattered now was power. That, and his people's survival. Nothing…not the Mechanic, the World Council or the other Families… could be allowed to stand in his way.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, in the meantime-_

Alan had plunked himself down in the TB3 launch seat, over in the ring. Happy to be back in action, he was double… _quadruple…_ thrilled, because Pip would be riding shotgun, wearing one of those green **RECRUIT** coveralls.

Giving his purple-haired opposite number a confident "thumbs up", Alan triggered seat-descent, causing their part of the couch to sink down through the parquet floor and into the echoing hangar, below. There followed a swift, theme-park style ride through a long tunnel. Alan cracked a few jokes and pointed out the sights, wanting Piper to love his Bird as much as he did. Wasn't sure he was getting anywhere, until… just before their two seats split, at the fork… Piper leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"Gotcha back!" she teased, leaning just out of counterstrike range. Then, their chairs moved off on different tracks, leaving Alan red-faced and grinning. 'Cause, wow! She was… was… y'know? She just _was._

As the launch seat clicked onto its pneumatic lift, then began rising, Alan was pecked at by a flock of uniform-maintenance bots. He had to sit real still through the process, or risk getting dumped in the cockpit with both boots on his head, and the pants wrapped round his neck like a scarf.

Alan had a lot on his mind; a major rescue coming up… but he seriously did not want to look like a chump in front of Piper. Didn't move one _micron_ , showing up in his Bird perfectly dressed, beside the most beautiful, amazing girl in the world… who'd somehow retained her pink flower-crown. (Later admitting she'd sat on it.)

Their seats switched orientation from ninety-degree lie-down to upright, as Thunderbird 3 rumbled to life around them. Alan glanced over, saw that Pip was impressed, and felt himself grow, like, six inches taller.

There were preflight systems-checks to run, and Al didn't cut any corners, letting the girl see exactly what he was doing, and why. Then, when he'd got through the boring-important stuff, it was time to have fun.

"You ready?" he asked her, fighting the urge to grin like a stupid kid. Piper nodded.

"Sure am, Boss-guy. To the danger-zone. Floor it!"

 _Heh._ He was supposed to check out, wait for clearance, blah, blah, blah… but wanted to look good for the girl. So, the heck with procedures. Just, y'know, this once.

As Thunderbird 3's massive engines came howling to life, Alan dropped the silo's force field, then power-launched. That long, crimson rocket fired itself like a piston; rumbling out of her tube and straight through the ring house. Dawn was just breaking pale and pink, as Alan and Pip shot off.

"Thunderbird 3 is go!" he exulted, ready to take on whatever the world was throwing.


	17. Chapter 17

Hi, Guys. =) Me, again. Édited.

 **17**

 _Thunderbird 5, in high orbit over distant Tracy Island-_

After all this, his boring desk job at WorldGov HQ would seem like a haven of peace, with or without Chancellor Shaw's machinations. All around him, the space station was going nuts; its power repeatedly shutting off and restarting, every thirty seconds, or so. It had also been placed in cleansing mode, causing hordes of small maintenance bots to zip from their bays, mindlessly cleaning whatever got in their path.

In the meantime, Jeff had three… make that _four…_ major emergencies to handle, back there on Earth. And yes, okay. Maybe John _could_ have done it all better. But then, John didn't have an obnoxious, smart-ass AI fighting him, every Goddam step of the way.

Fortunately, Jeff had helped to design and build Thunderbird 5. He knew all of the 'Oh, sh*t' cut-off codes, and just when to use them.

Maneuvering his way across that big, noisy dome, Jeff sailed over to the station's main control panel. Like the rest of Thunderbird 5, the board had been lighting up and blinking off again, like a cheap neon bar sign.

"Move!" snapped the Colonel, batting aside three of those industriously-scrubbing maintenance bots. They tumbled off to drift away in midair, brushes still whirring, trailing bubbles and fluid like smoke. Jeff nearly electrocuted himself in his haste to enter the reset code on a sloppy-wet keypad. One more thing never to mention, _ever._

Anyhow, a little charge never hurt anyone… very much. Jeff clenched and extended burnt fingers, briefly; getting the feeling back into his hand. Then he set back to work, pressing his right palm to the scanner.

' **ACCESS DENIED'** , boomed the station's control system, delivering another brief jolt.

"What?!" Jeff blurted. He was beginning to get angry, which wasn't safe, at all. "I helped design every piece of equipment on this Goddam floating scrap-heap! _Override,_ protocol 51!"

That was his ultimate weapon; one that would take control of any Bird, regardless of pilot, or locked onboard system. He hadn't used it around Eos, because she might have been able to circumvent the command. She'd vanished, though, leaving utter chaos in her wake.

"Override," repeated Jeff, once more pressing his hand to the scanner. All at once, with a series of sharp clicks and screeches, the station reset itself. Her lights quit flashing and dimming. The life support system ceased thumping on and off like a d*mn bellows. Even those madly-scrubbing robots stopped work on the instant, returning to their maintenance bays. Then, in a warm electronic voice, Thunderbird 5 said,

"Welcome, Jeff Tracy. Enter access code, now."

A computer-destruct sequence had started, in the event that he _wasn't_ Jeff Tracy, and couldn't supply the right code. All part of the plan.

"That's more like it," grunted the Colonel, swinging himself a bit closer to the station's primary control panel. Hurriedly, he keyed in: 0423LUCY, using an actual, tactile keypad, not one of those holographic nightmares preferred by John and Brains. The keystrokes went in, another chime sounded, and then the station said,

"Access granted. Command?"

Jeff waited, still filled with fight and adrenaline. At length, (when nothing else went wrong for a full three minutes) he grunted,

"Show me complete situation reports on Kyoto Tower, Pacifica City, and Thunderbirds 1,2 and 4. Then, open a channel to Island Base."

"Command entered. Processing."

Seconds later, five glowing holo-globes flashed into existence around the Colonel, each one displaying an active danger zone. Jeff turned slowly in midair, switching his gaze from one ugly scene to the next.

Okay… _sh*t._ The situation was bad, to put it mildly. Scott's icon flickered and dimmed in the tower spaceport, which had sustained heavy damage from some sort of collision and detonation. Pacifica City appeared to be slipping into a trench, amid pillars of gouting black smoke. Gordon, too, was offline, having seemingly vanished along with his rescue sub. Meanwhile, Virgil appeared to be struggling just to keep Thunderbird 2 in the air, and Eos had blasted away like the loose cannon she was, doing God-alone-knew how much damage. Jeff felt his blood pressure spike.

On the plus side, Kayo was streaking for Japan in Thunderbird Shadow, and Lee was already halfway back from the Moon. If he hurried directly to Pacifica City, and Virgil inflated those emergency floats, eight-hundred lives still might be saved. As for Buddy and Ellie Pendergast… who knew? Alan would find them, if anyone could. His missing sons he did not permit himself to wonder about. The boys were Tracys. They knew what they were doing. Jeff had to have faith that hard training, crack skill and sheer, runs-in-the-family determination would keep his sons alive, and a step ahead of trouble.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 5," he called out, after opening a channel to the desk. "This station is back online, and ready for action."

Didn't say a word about Eos, because GDF ears might be listening in. Just,

"Got a bug out of the system, up here, and I'm about to trace that signal."

"Understood, Thunderbird 5," came Ma's voice and silver-haired image. She looked and sounded pretty distracted, so Jeff kept it brief.

"Let you know, as soon as I've got something solid on the Pendergasts, and I'll help route the GDF rescue fleet, as well."

"Right," his mother responded, gazing at Jeff over her red-framed spectacles. Never once had Sally Tracy expressed doubt about the wisdom and safety of sending the boys out, mission after hair-raising mission. Now, she seemed shaken. "We'll keep ya posted from our end, too, Thunderbird 5. You take care up there, Jeffery."

"Yes, Ma," he responded, hoping like h*ll for a miracle.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In transit-_

She had split herself into a stream of high-energy data points. This was not ideal, because of the danger. Her packets might be diverted, blocked or absorbed, as Eos flashed from Thunderbirds 4 and 2, then followed that power surge outward. In all her five years of life, she had only left the station three times. On each occasion, she'd been safely housed within a mechanism. This was different. Wilder, and much less certain. Like a streak of invisible lightning, the AI rode along with that rocketing power, heading first upward and then, quite suddenly, ceasing to exist; utterly snuffed out between one terabyte and the next. Her last sentient thought, John's image.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Kyoto, Japan, in the Yamato Spaceport Tower-_

He hadn't expected those highjacked security drones, which showed up on either side of him; pressing close. One pushed him into the other, and plucked at his right arm, as he was trying to rise from an unstable half-crouch. Scott flailed blindly at absolute silence and spark-shot darkness. Then, something stung him, right on the neck. Must've been quite some needle, because IR uniform textile was close to impenetrable.

Realizing that he'd been sedated, Scott tried to get up, meaning to press his wrist comm (missing) or run (couldn't; his legs had stopped working). Instead, he got a sickening, stomach-drop, falling sensation, and crashed hard against concrete. Should have hurt more than it did, but Scott was too drugged to feel much. Moments later he'd been trussed up, then lifted and carried away.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Manhattan, New York, at the top of a shattered building-_

John slammed Buddy and Ellie flat to the deck, covering them as well as he could with his own battered body. Next triggered the "distort" feature on Brains' amazing formal wear. Not a perfect solution… all the thing did was jam electronic sensors… but better than nothing at all.

The explorers were exhausted and weak, but wise enough to keep quiet, as that buzzing and beeping, jointed-limb drone approached their location. John could hear the thing coming. Could feel its scanning sweeps, all through his wrist comm and illegal circuitry. Those pulses didn't hurt, exactly… just crackled; scrambling his thoughts all to h*ll and erasing a few recent memories. But he managed to hang onto the thought: _Don't move. Not a sound._

Sensing something amiss, the big drone came closer, setting pebbles and slivers of glass bouncing and sliding across the cracked floor. Powerful lasers crisscrossed the air nearby, gouging smoldering lines in concrete and tile, and starting small fires. More scanning waves followed, as the people beneath him tried not to breathe, or dislodge any rubble.

They could have been sliced up like lunchmeat, only its aim was off. Refracted by… by something he'd done. It missed them completely, scoring on nothing but innocent stonework and glass.

Dimly sensing that someone was present and hidden from sight, the drone hovered awhile, like a many-eyed, floating grenade. He could see its shadow. Knew that, once triggered, the guard mech would summon many more of its vicious kind. For that reason, John held very still.

After a few tense heartbeats, the thing moved off, but not before firing a target beacon, marking their hiding place for destruction. Screaming like a bottle-rocket, the beacon struck the wall behind John and those pinned explorers, then drilled in and started to flash red and white.

John rolled off of the others once the drone returned to its regular beat. Was tired, hungry and sore all over, but still alive. Surprisingly, the woman… blonde, pretty… he'd think of her name in a minute… gave him a long hug and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Johnnie," she whispered. "That's more times y've saved our arses today than I c'n count. But, don't worry… once we've found that croc, an' we're outta here, Buddy an' me 'll make it right up t' you. Promise."

Buddy, that was it... Buddy and Ellie. Friends of… of Gordon. Friends of the family. A bit hesitantly, John returned her smile, and accepted half of a strawberry protein bar. Then it was time to get the h*ll out of Dodge, while he could still sort of think, and before that d*mn beacon summoned a mechanized wrecking crew. How, was another matter entirely, because no one escaped from a GDF quarantine zone. Especially New York.


	18. Chapter 18

Hi, there... And thanks, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Susan and Whirl Girl, for reviewing. Hope it's as much fun to read, as it has been to write. =)

 **18**

 _Also in transit, and seeking a lair-_

There were rumours flashing through the criminal underworld, that he had bargained with the Chaos Crew, taken their tech, and then killed the double-crossing brats, just to avoid paying up. Loose talk. Completely false and irritating (though it toughened his reputation still further).

The Mechanic had no quarrel at all with being thought murderous. In fact, he encouraged terror and dread in those huddled beneath him. But being accused of cheating at business was another matter, entirely. One he took very seriously. Whoever _had_ robbed those enhanced, out-of-control pests had attempted to shift the blame onto Kane. That made him… or her, the Mechanic wasn't squeamish… a walking corpse. Only question was _who,_ and how soon.

Well, data followed paths, and if it was sent, that packet would have been picked up, somewhere. Kane could easily trace the recipient of those stolen plans, and then, he'd go hunting. Have fun putting a full, bloody stop to an effing idiot.

Had to build himself a stronghold first, though; a place from which to launch his bid for power. At the moment, Kane was on the move. He stood in the cockpit of another stolen cargo jet; legs braced wide on the deck, jacked into the plane's systems, deep as a knife in a wound. The children… Ilya, Katrin… were playing in the back, rummaging through crates and luggage for whatever took their fancy. Kane left them to it, having locked up the flight crew, and needing time to think.

The ocean was a given. He required access to its mineral resources, as well as cover for some of his larger projects. Relative isolation was a must, as well. Neighbors tended to end up dead, and that drew needless attention. Also had to have wide-open skies, with little satellite coverage, because what the GDF didn't know, would help them sleep at night… until he decided to kill them all.

Too, there was the issue of prior claim. Antarctica 'belonged' to the sneaking Kyranos. South America, to the De la Vegas, Japan to the shape-shifting Hiros, and England to the Beeches, while Canada was held by the Harris family. Scotland, of course, belonged to the Mother of Cyborgs. Nobody counted the Tracys and their pitiful island. As for the few remaining time-benders, their bolt-holes weren't deep enough to hide them from Kane… Except, of course, for the one being sheltered by Dumbass. _He_ was off limits. For now.

At any rate, the Mechanic never pondered for very long. He was a creature of action. Always had been. _New Zealand_ , he decided, with typical suddenness. Close enough to the Kyranos and Tracys to make them nervous, but not near enough to encourage trespass. _Pancake Rocks_ , because the name appealed to his sense of humor.

"South," the cyborg grunted, making a slight, left-handed gesture. The plane's engine noise changed as it banked obediently, already grown half aware. Half alive. Good core for a Hive Ship, maybe. After all, a man had to start somewhere, and he could always gift that terrified flight crew to the Tracys. They'd probably jump at the chance to welcome another influx of Goddam…

 **?**

Squinting, the Mechanic filtered out most of those incoming signals, striving to isolate a single, particular thread in the torrent of data. ' _Hunh',_ he thought, after teasing it out.

Just traffic noise, maybe, but one of the Tracys' vehicles looked to be in distress. D*mn close to crashing. Thunderbird 2, it was; the green one relating to Virgil. Kane hesitated, poised between thought and conclusion, impulse and act.

This was a critical moment for Evan Kane, because a decision had got to be made; whether to butt in, or let the 'friend' fight his own d*mn battle. Stand or fall, without crippling aid. It was not a simple decision for one who'd fought his way to dominance. More, the choice would colour everything else that happened, thereafter.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, heading north, away from Tracy Island-_

Track the power surge, find the Pendergasts. Easy, right? Except that, no, it totally wasn't. Alan could pick up that burst of data from Kyoto, Japan. It was a HUGE packet, because complete info on two people… down to the lint in their pockets and thoughts in their heads… took up a crap-ton of bandwidth. Like following the track of a six-ton boulder, rolling downhill. Out through the aether that signal had flashed, moving at the speed of light. Then, after a sudden power outage and violent surge, it had just disappeared; not received any place that Alan R. Tracy could find.

"Dang it!" he snapped, slamming the rocket's instrument panel. "Where did they _go?"_

Pip had been watching him work, craning around in the copilot's seat to stare at that unhelpful holograph map. Only, he was coming up with a whole lot of nothing, because those explorers were nowhere at all. Then,

"A-T…" Piper mused, squinting her deep-blue eyes.

"Yeah?" grumped the youngest Tracy, pretty close to his wit's end.

"What're all those blank places on the map? Up there, in the Territories, and out there in Scotland and India? Why are they fuzzy, like that?" See, she'd paid close attention in history class, and geography, too… Had heard not a word about 'dark zones'.

"Um…" Alan hedged, sort of accidentally-on-purpose cutting off his stupid body cam. "They're no-fly, no-go quarantine sites. Scars, sort of, left over from the old conflicts. Nobody crosses that border, Pip, trust me. If they do, they sure as heck don't come back. There's, like, no way at all they would've gone _there."_

The girl cocked her head like a cute, puzzled kitten.

"Are you _sure_ , A-T? I mean, what if the transport signal got bounced to a blank spot, only nobody's found it, 'cause nobody's thought to just frickin' _look."_

Alan started to say something smart and experienced, then fell silent; thinking. After a second or two, he switched to comm and said,

"Hey, Dad…? I mean: Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 3."

The comm crackled, briefly, as ocean rolled by underneath them, and the sky lightened to water-color pink in the east. Sunrise with Piper.

"Go ahead, 3," came the Colonel's deep voice, making the girl go all wide-eyed and quiet.

"Yessir. Got a request for you. Could you, um… shoot me some satellite feeds of the quarantine zones? Specifically, looking for any sudden power-flares or physical manifestations?"

Piper fairly bounced in her seat, happy to have come up with maybe part of the answer. Meanwhile, his father said,

"I'm checking, Son. Most of this data is tightly encrypted, though. Tough to hack."

John could have done it in seconds, but nobody said so, being far too wise. Then,

"Bingo! It's a lot of territory, covered by seeker-drones and high-altitude pollution sweepers, but… I see a couple of possibles. One over Manhattan, New York, not too long ago… one in Antarctica, by Ross Island… and, uh… tough to be sure, but a very faint ripple below ground, in New York, again. You think that our missing explorers turned up _there?"_ asked the Colonel, in a voice that crackled with unconcealed stress. He was, needless to say, on the coded family network.

"Yes, Sir. I… _we_ think it's possible their signal got bounced to a quarantine zone, and that's how come nobody's found them, yet," Alan suggested, glancing across at Pip. She gave him a wink, causing Alan to snort back a laugh. Dad wasn't finding things funny, though. Not at all.

Jeff Tracy cursed, with a depth of feeling generally reserved for plane wrecks and government drop-ins.

"Okay… right. Let me think this through, Alan. Fly a holding pattern at forty-thousand feet, while I work on getting you clearance. Do not… repeat, _NOT_ , under any circumstances, attempt to violate one of those borders. Am I understood, Son?"

The young astronaut scowled but managed a grudging nod. The fact that he and Piper had both reflexively crossed their fingers while doing so stayed completely unnoticed, because the conversation was vox-only.

"Understood, Sir," Alan responded, with a wild and unwilling heart. "We'll wait for clearance." Or, a call for help. Whichever came first.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, down in the sprawling lab complex-_

Vanessa Moffat-Hackenbacker was sick. Again. Could hold nothing down but ramen noodles and unsweetened iced tea. This did not stop her from working, though. Even if her husband _did_ treat her like fragile, explosive crystal. Kept trying to make her go back to their suite and lie down.

"No, Dear," she'd told him, more than once. "I am one-hundred percent still your research partner and fellow scientist, even if also your wife. I may have suspended returning to Bonn, but that does not mean that I've given up working."

Darling Hiram had some decidedly antiquarian notions of pregnant female safety. He'd agreed (mostly to keep her from getting upset, Moffy feared) but had let her actually _do_ very little. Now, to top things off, his young lab assistant had come back, pushing Doctor Moffat still further away from the action.

"Mister Brain," yodeled Caleb, loping into that vast, flood-lit chamber, "I'm here to help out! Training's over, and they don't really need me, upstairs."

Hiram looked up from tinkering with the transport disk's control panel. Her handsome, brilliant, incredibly tender and loving, rump-headed husband straightened right up, and actually smiled.

"G- Good! That is, ah… is v- very good, Caleb. Dearest, you m- may now…"

"No," snapped Vanessa, fighting exhaustion and nausea as she got to her swollen feet. "I may _not!_ Not go lie down, not have a nice, soothing bath, _not_ get out of the way like a good little wife! Hiram, I was a particle physicist before we got married, and I remain one, now. This baby…" Moffy placed both hands protectively over her slightly curved midsection, "…is not our sole collaboration, _Doctor."_

Hiram took a sharp, sudden breath and then blinked; the large brown eyes behind those spectacles at once concerned, and very proud.

"Of c- course, Moffy," he soothed, smiling at her. "And th- thank you for, ah… for r- reminding me of this fact."

Right. Vanessa's own blue eyes went all at once narrow and flinty.

"Don't you _dare_ humour me, Hiram Hackenbacker," she growled, feeling ready to cry, and throw up.

Utterly distracted, neither scientist noticed young Caleb, who was walking around that large, faintly humming neutronium transport disk. It was nearly complete. Just about ready to test… if they'd had a destination in mind, and a subject willing to face such a risk.

Someone, maybe, who'd done a little research, and knew the exact spacetime coordinates for Earth, seven-hundred years in the future. Someone with nothing to lose but a broken and aching heart.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird Prototype, coming in fast and hot-_

Captain Lee Cooper Taylor flew that Bird like he'd stolen it, entering the atmosphere between two lumbering freighters and a GDF mine-sweeper. Had to turn the ship on end to squeeze through there, but made it past with no more than a shriek and flare of repelling shields, whooping like a kid the whole way. Then,

"'Scuse me, Fellers," he'd commed, " _and_ Ladies," (because one of those freighters 'd had a female pilot with a vivid and spicy vocabulary). "Comin' through!"

Pacific-West traffic was backed up for half an AU thanks to that Snafu in Japan, only Lee didn't have time to wait his turn. Not with trouble stirring down below, and his boys at desperate risk.

"You c'n direct all compliments, complaints and insurance claims ta Colonel Linda Casey, at the GDF Tower," added the handsome old astronaut, weaving through thousands of miles of stalled traffic. Figured he'd wait to call home till he had the danger zone in sight and could do something to reassure Beth.

"Mike," said Taylor, to the Minimax hovering at his right shoulder. "Round up some a' y'r pals and form us a big, powered rescue bell. If'n them GDF subs don't get there in time, we're gonna need a Plan B."

… _And_ C, as it turned out.


	19. Chapter 19

Hey, there. Had the day off for Veterans Day, so I had some time to write. :) An important holiday in my household, as pretty near every member is, or was, in the service. Anyhow, thank you, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, Shadow and Whirl Girl, for reviewing. Will respond, post haste.

 **19**

 _The Manhattan Quarantine Zone, on a chilly, cloud-shot afternoon-_

It was a stupid idea, and he knew it. Never work in a million years… except that it had to. John Tracy had herded his charges away from the targeting beacon's insistent red and white glare. Other side of the building seemed safer, and better shielded from view. The mirrored glass wall here was nearly intact, though it juddered and hummed, whenever the wind shifted quarter. This end had part of a crumbling ceiling, too.

John pushed Buddy and Ellie into that one sheltered corner, telling them,

"Eat. Get some rest. I've got … something to work on."

Buddy nodded, saying,

"Right-o, Bluey. I'll take next watch, then Ellie, 'ere. She's good as both of _us_ put t'gether." Yeah. Hard not to like the guy, even if he _was_ obsessed with mythical reptiles.

Shaking his head a little, John stepped away and looked up. The yellow pollution sweeper hung clanking and sputtering right overhead, looking like a smudged, moldy gourd. He could hear its rusted fan blades scraping their housing as they swept up fumes and contaminants. Mark II. A very old, obsolete device, still in use because WorldGov wouldn't waste money on a long-abandoned dead zone.

John had dealt with its kind, before. Knew that safety of sorts lay inside, along with basic comm and med gear. Just had to find a way up there. Ideas? The sweeper was too high to reach with plain muscle, even enhanced by the lifting power of Brains' fancy shoes. Not too high for his exopod, though. All the astronaut had to do was find a way to summon the d*mn thing.

See, Thunderbird 5 was up in high orbit, halfway around the world, receiving a constant sh*t storm of incoming messages. One little chirp from a radioactive quarantine site would strike 5's sensors like a raindrop in a hurricane… and, _God,_ his head hurt. Wasn't the sort to take painkillers, usually, but…

"Got any aspirin?" he asked Buddy, as Ellie took background video and made a few sound files.

"Right 'ere, Mate," the explorer responded, smiling gamely. A brief pocket search turned up a small case of headache pills. "Take what y' need."

John nodded carefully (felt like an effing three-day hangover). Accepted a tablet and swallowed it dry. Then he said,

"Thanks. I'm going to try summoning equipment from Thunderbird 5, but I'll need to boost the signal. My… the… spacesuit... it only listens for one kind of message. No competition. Need one of your cameras, though." And his own wrist comm, and cufflinks. The lasers' power source was a multi-D particle battery. Much stronger than his wrist comm could handle. Wrong size and shape, too, but Ellie had a hairpin, and Buddy, a couple of foil gum wrappers.

Those, with several rubber bands, made a quick and dirty adaptor, while the camera provided lensing for a tight, focused beam. Well, he hoped it would, anyhow. Thinking was slower than normal. Muddier. Took him awhile to build the Franken-smitter, even with help. Fifteen minutes, altogether, as that high-voltage beacon flashed its non-stop destruct call. Thing sounded like a combination bug-zapper and bacon pan.

"Couldn't we just heave th' blighter over th' side?" Ellie fretted, leaning into Buddy for warmth. John shook his head, no.

"Booby-trapped," he explained, hunting for words. "Rigged to go off."

Just had to hope that the local robotic destruction crew was occupied elsewhere. Eos… he wondered about. Hoped, y'know… she was safe, and Penny, too. Got the apparatus put together at last, just as the sun's red, swollen limb touched that broken-jawed skyline. Pollution sweeper was wandering off again, having vacuumed up as much as it could. So, no time to waste on scollops and doo-dads, as Grandma would put it.

"Just need a few minutes," John told the universe, needing things to start going right. It was getting colder, and that wind had developed a knife-like slash. Looking westward, John pressed one end of a folded gum wrapper to the silvery, lozenge-shaped particle battery. The camera beeped and juddered like it had just bolted hundred-proof vodka. Routed by his wrist comm, a brief signal shot forth, bounced off the sweeper's antenna, and hurtled upward.

"Did it work?" Buddy asked, not keen on leaving before he'd found that non-existent croc, of his. John took a moment to process, then nodded.

"Think so. Ought to reach the pod bay and trigger a launch. Eos 'll know what's happened… and tell Dad. Sent coordinates, so…" The weary astronaut gestured with one hand, meaning, approximately: _the exopod can free fall, then cut on over._ Once he had wings again, John could make his way up to that slowly departing sweeper. Get them all out, himself, without endangering family.

He'd meant to stay up and wait, but grew too tired to stand. Fell asleep, with his head on Ellie's shoulder. She rubbed his forehead and temples, humming something that reminded John of safety and warmth. Buddy held their one working cufflink, meanwhile; looking out for more drones, or mutated plant life. Important, because those predator vines never rested, even with sea water. Even at night.

About half an hour later, he and Ellie saw something zipping their way through the dark sky. Too small and quiet for an aircraft or drone, Buddy reasoned. Almost, the red-capped explorer fired a cuff-laser blast. Only, his wife whispered,

"Buddy, wait. Johnnie… John, wake up, Chookie, an' come 'ave a look. Whaddya think, Luv? Shoot it down?"

The astronaut shuddered awake; stiff and sore from hard ground and cramped posture. Better rested, though. Looking upward, he spotted two small, blinking lights streaking toward them at a very sharp angle. Were there other fast-moving glows, close behind?

"Get inside," he told the Pendergasts, standing up for a better view. "Head for a lower level, find something that floats, and make your way to a safer building."

They didn't move, at first, so John added,

 _"Now,_ dammit! Not sure that's my exopod, or that it's not being followed by drones. Go. Keep the laser for protection. If I make it to the sweeper, I'll come back and find you. If not… do your best to stay alive. My folks are looking for us. I promise you."

Alone, Buddy might have argued, but he had Ellie to think about, and video footage to edit.

"Luck, Bluey," he said, flailing in the darkness to clasp John's shoulder. "See you on th' flip side, Mate."

The astronaut got a brief, tight hug from Ellie, and then the explorers were gone. He listened to their rustling, whispered retreat, then turned to face those oncoming lights. Odds weren't all that bad, John figured. 3 out of 5 that his exopod had caught the weak signal… 5 in 10 that it had evaded detection, coming in from above, shielded by Eos… 4 in, dunno… 5 or 6, maybe, that it wouldn't just crash from excess momentum. Anyhow, he'd probably make it, unless fever and headache had screwed up his maths.

Funny, that you're fondest of life when it looks so close to the end. John memorized the whole d*mn situation, standing there with his fists clenched at his sides on a cold, New York evening. Wind gusts, star gleam, clunky floating sweeper, and unseen waters muttering secrets, down below. Radiation pricked at his skin; more noticeable, without the sun in the sky. Just him, braced at the edge of whatever came next.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 5, a little bit earlier-_

Jeff Tracy was doing his best to contain that legendary, volcanic temper. To say that he was getting nowhere at all with the GDF was putting things mildly.

"Linda," he said to Colonel Casey's grim, holographed image, "Thunderbird 3 has full decon capability. She's not going to carry anything back from quarantine! One quick flyover…"

"Will encourage a horde of thrill-seekers and scrap-pirates, Jeff. You _know_ that!" the tense, brown-haired officer wasn't giving an inch. "Laws and borders exist for a reason! They've been established to protect the peace and save lives. Remember what happened when a salvage crew got too deep into Scotland?! That's right… they triggered a Goddam _Manhunter,_ Jeff! Now, drop it. The answer is _no._ Look all you want from orbit, but nobody crosses a dead zone border. Not anymore. And _that_ directive comes straight from the Chancellor!"

Jeff breathed deeply; too angry for words. He'd never been so frustrated. So terribly helpless in the face of stone-wall intransigence and genuine need. Had the Director been physically present, Jeff would have shaken her till her teeth rattled. Instead, all he could do was float in the midst of blinking, beeping, worthless technology.

"Colonel Casey," he began, raggedly, "I…"

That's when something happened. Some sort of feeble, incoming ping opened the exopod hatch. _Launch exopod Y/N?_ flashed up on one of those circling holo-screens. Jeff's brown eyes widened. Hurriedly, he jabbed the nearest green 'enter' button, meaning: _H*ll, yeah!_ Heard the launch tube engage and the suit whoosh away without its pilot, seconds later. Jeff's heart hammered, but he kept his face as smooth and bland as Charlie's, when plotting escape from bath time.

"I… think that you're mistaken, Colonel, but I won't do anything rash. International Rescue operates at the whim of WorldGov, and we know it. I intend to launch surveillance probes and scan the New York quarantine zone, from orbit. You may inform Chancellor Shaw that I'll share any findings with the GDF research team." Had to keep her talking, while racing to scramble an avalanche of cover. "In the meantime, Linda, how are we coming with those rescue subs?"

Casey appeared to relax a bit. She smoothed a hand over her tightly bound hair and then straightened her uniform, saying,

"They're on their way, Jeff. I had to dispatch Hawaii's fleet _and_ Guam's, because the Japanese launch bay sustained major damage in that sudden quake. Any clue why the epicenter was untouched? Except for two-thousand-plus deaths, there's been no damage to downtown Kyoto, at all."

Jeff honestly didn't know, though he suspected Rigby's ride-along friend. Didn't say so, though. Just kept Casey distracted while he launched wave after wave of tiny, fast-moving recon probes. Assuming that John was after his 'wearable ship'… and possibly smack in the middle of a dead zone… he'd need the thing not to be tracked.

"We're looking into it, Linda. As I recall, something similar happened on Mars, once, when a polar lander unexpectedly came back online, after crashing."

Casey grunted, shaking her head.

"This is several orders of magnitude beyond a resurrected probe, Jeff. I was thinking that maybe your chief engineer found a way to use those nanobots of his for city-wide reconstruction."

Jeff blinked, firing the last wave of probes.

"I'm, ah… not able to comment on that possibility, Linda," he said. "But, I'll ask him. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got operations to run in Kyoto and Pacifica City. I'll keep you posted. Tracy, out."

There was a knot in Jeff's gut as he switched comm to Thunderbird 3, because Alan was sure to recognize the exopod's transponder signal… and almost certain to follow it down.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere-_

He was trapped in a nightmare of paralyzed darkness. Couldn't move, speak or see. Wasn't sure how much time had passed, or where he was. Just that he had to hold out; hang on to sanity. Bit by bit, something started to happen. Flashes of memory rose unbidden; stuff from the past that he'd long since forgotten. Then, streaks of sensation, as though someone was mapping his brain. The questions started shortly thereafter.


	20. Chapter 20

Greetings, you guys. :) Off for Thanksgiving, at last. Hope things are peaceful and happy, 'round your way. Thanks, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Creative Girl, Thunderbird Shadow and Whirl Girl... and really interesting notions, about that pollution sweeper! ;) Edited.

 **20**

 _Kyoto, Japan, at the first blush of morning-_

Sometimes, now, he saw things in colors he didn't recognize, at speeds and angles that his brain couldn't quite put together. Came from sharing head space with a bodiless alien, maybe. Whatever the case, Wayne Rigby witnessed that flashing, crystalline bomb arcing up through the air like a jewel-studded golf ball. Despite thousands of glowing hologram cats, wall-shaking music, and the fact that he was facing the wrong direction, Wayne tracked Havok's bomb.

And then, with a split second to react, Rigby did what seemed best; he lunged to protect Dr. Reeves by shoving the smaller man onto the deck. Too late, he spotted Scott's sudden arrival. Would have called out a warning, but then the bomb went off like a shrieking, sun-glaring thunderclap. Not just loud and bright, though. The thing was deliberately targeted at a human sensory range; meant to deafen and blind. An icepick would have done less damage… except that, even dormant, the Survivor defended his host.

When that searing glare and nerve-shredding scream gouged at his senses, the alien's power deflected the worst, leaving Wayne mostly unharmed on the floor, covering Tycho Reeves. The assault lasted a minute, maybe two. Hard to tell, because it contained a nasty EMP punch, on top of everything else, knocking out Rigby's electronic comm unit.

Once the blast ended, Wayne shifted position, bracing for further attack. The Chaos Crew were gone, though, leaving a giant hole in the tower's outer wall. Heart still hammering, he looked down, saw that Reeves had lost consciousness. Might have been for the best. The poor guy's ears were bleeding, his brown eyes glazed and half-open.

"It's alright, Doctor," said Rigby, more out of hope than fact. "You're going to be just fine."

The transport chamber was a shambles (again), full of caved-in wall and tightly-rolled, gleaming white robots. One of these eventually beeped, flashed and then uncoiled, forming what looked like a clawed and wheeled armadillo.

"Honoured Guest," chimed the security bot, zipping past fallen stonework and shattered glass to join him. "Do you require assistance?"

There were bits of masonry, metal and drifting insulation pattering down around them, from the Chaos Cruiser's entry hole. Wind, too, although the holo-cats and jangling background music had vanished.

"Thank you, I'll be alright," said Rigby, as a wave of GDF troopers came pouring into the chamber. "This man needs help, though," he added, indicating Dr. Reeves. "And my client, Mr. Tracy, might be in some trouble."

The robot's wedge-shaped head dipped and raised again, approximating a human nod.

"Understood, Honoured Guest. A med-bot approaches. Initiating scans for Client Tracy."

Right. Rigby took a second to make certain that everything he owned was still attached and functional. Then, he lurched to his feet. That took some doing, because the bomb had affected the captain's inner ear, too, throwing his balance off. He got better fast, though, thanks to Survivor.

Said the security-bot, after scanning the area,

"Client Tracy not found, Honoured Guest. Misfortune is strongly suspected."

Rigby had absorbed the impact of two bombs in rapid succession. He'd HALO dropped out of Thunderbird 1 with a jetpack he barely knew how to control (in approved Marine fashion) and then been resurrected by his alien guest. He was not at his mental freshest. Nevertheless,

"Misfortune?" the Captain repeated, catching on fairly quick. "You mean, he's been kidnapped?" _A Tracy? Drug_ _anywhere_ _he didn't want to go? How? By what?_

The robot didn't respond aloud. Instead, it performed a complex little dance on the cracked, littered deck, as if drawing a 3-D picture. Rigby memorized the odd diagram without understanding what he was seeing. Then, the defense force rushed up to surround him; concerned, polite, and determined to learn what had happened.

Like most lawyers, Wayne Rigby had a knack for talking a lot without saying very much, all the while plotting strategy… except that this wasn't a military court case, or even a GDF mission update. He'd lost Scott Tracy, who was not just a client, but the brother of the young lady he very much longed to impress.

Naturally enough, she picked _that_ moment to appear, seeming to slip from the long morning shadows and wind.

"Wayne," she said, touching his right shoulder, briefly. "Are you okay? Where have the Chaos Crew got off to, and where's Scott?"

Acutely conscious that he was wearing baggy green coveralls with **RECRUIT** printed across the chest in bright yellow letters, Captain Rigby cleared his throat. Needed to lock up his feelings, stay completely professional… but couldn't, quite. Not around Tanusha, who was green-eyed and sleek as a cat; so pretty, she hurt to look at.

"I'm fine, thank you for asking. The Chaos Crew appear to have fled the scene in their vehicle… and I suggest that we begin searching the premises for your brother, Miss Tracy. With _haste."_

Kayo took a deep, sudden breath, doing things to her upper anatomy that made thought fairly difficult.

"He's gone after them?" she demanded, once again reaching for Rigby's arm. "Jetpacked onto their ship, or something?"

Wayne scowled, fighting off the effects of that gentle, warm touch. Mostly.

"Were this anyone else, I'd say 'no', but as we're discussing a Tracy, here... leaping onto the hull of a streaking escape ship sounds absolutely in character. Or… he may have departed unwillingly."

Kayo's brilliant green eyes narrowed, but she didn't probe further. Too many listening ears and devices. Just,

"Then, let's go find him, Captain," she declared, knowing that Rigby could refuse her nothing.

"Yes, Ma'am," he responded, prepared to pull rank with the local GDF. Blond haired and blue eyed, with a tall, stocky figure, Wayne wasn't as handsome as her brothers, and he knew it. What he lacked in looks, therefore, he'd have to make up for in courage and charm. "You arrange transport, and I'll make sure that Dr. Reeves is taken care of."

Kayo favoured him with a nod and another brief touch.

"He's the only one who really understands this transporter," she said, indicating that scarred and sparking neutronium disk. "We need him awake and talking, ASAP."

…Because, according to intel, Reeves' device had opened an unstable wormhole with portals deep in the ocean, and high over barren, abandoned New York. If not shut down, soon, that widening hole could drop half the Pacific onto an already suffering continent.

"Thunderbird Shadow's right outside," urged Kayo, leaning close to the weary Marine, "Set a guard, and let's go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Meanwhile, not high enough over shifting and turbulent waters-_

The sky was turning from star-pocked black to pale grey, wind steady at 24 knots, out of the west. Virgil had some flickering power, but next to no steering; could do little but keep her nose up and goose those engines for all he could get. Only, his hand-twisted connection wasn't the finest. Worse, that second network had not been intended to control Thunderbird 2's massive airframe and ailerons. All he'd done was buy time, not repair the actual damage. Would have called Base for help, but, yeah… they could probably see through his body cam, and what could they do besides pray?

"C'mon, Sweetie," Virgil muttered, willing life back into that flash-fried instrument panel and processing unit. "Wake up."

Maybe a wiser man would have bailed out, but Virgil stayed with the crippled Bird because… well, that was just Virgil. He could no more help being loyal than Scott could stop snapping orders, or John avoid making elaborate plans. He'd ride her straight in, if it came to that.

Sunrise was quick and bright at these latitudes; a symphonic blare of reds, pinks and violets, showing him just how close to the ocean he'd slid. Not going down without a major fight, Virgil Tracy took a firmer grip on the steering yoke, wrestling 2's nose into the wind for a whisper more lift. Her engines alternately roared and whined, responding to unsteady, partly-blocked signals.

Then, something struck the hull by his overhead hatch, sounding like a hailstone hitting a tin shed roof... or a targeted mech.

"Hunh?" he remarked, alertly. Ought not to have hailstones out of a managed weather system, and Kane was an ally, of sorts. But, all of a sudden there were tens, _hundreds_ of sharp, ringing **CLANG** s, and a few little skittery noises. Then, all at once, Thunderbird 2 seemed to shudder and flex. Her instrument panel spat like a grease fire, and then came right back online.

He'd been unconsciously humming, of course, something he did under stress, or while thinking. Now, made-up words burst forth, too, as Virgil hauled back on the steering yoke, filling his view screen with nothing but sky.

"Not goin' swimming today! Thunderbird 2's on her way…! People to save, stayin' outta the grave… not goin' swimming todaaaay!"

And, just like that, he was back in business. Could figure out _how_ , later on. For now, all that mattered was eight-hundred people, plus Penny, Gordon, Charlie and John.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Pacifica City, far below Thunderbird 2-_

Properly motivated, a clever girl with a multitool could accomplish great feats. Guided by weirdly sparking red lines, Penelope belly-crawled over the damp, creaking maintenance space to a hatch on the distant bulkhead. Locked, like all the rest of that undersea city's doors, this one nevertheless yielded to the right combination of know-how and pressure. Not for nothing had Penny learnt the art of Zen safe-cracking from Parker… whom she devoutly hoped had found John, and another way out.

 _This_ hatch was double, with a small, between-bulkhead airlock and second door. Cold to the touch and faintly vibrating, the next hatch possessed no porthole, through which she might glimpse what lay on the other side. There was an LED status light above the hatch combing, but its bulb had gone dark. No power, you see.

"Blast," Penny murmured, aware that she had to lead those waiting people to safety, somehow. And Bertie? What of her wee, precious lad? Was he shivering, cold and alone in the darkness, waiting and hoping for Mummy? Or fighting for his life in rising black water?

Penelope shook her head, driving these grim visions out of her thoughts. His sodden Majesty had meanwhile been passed into her small space by those behind, recovering enough to ask, hoarsely,

"Is the rest of the city flooded, as well, Lady Penelope?"

"Sir, I cannot be certain," she admitted. "Had I managed to retain my purse, I might use a certain device to scan our premises and call for help, but, as matters stand…"

"We must depend upon wit and good fortune," the king finished for her, inclining his head in that faintly red-gleaming darkness. "Surely, large-scale flooding would have collapsed the city," he reasoned, after a pensive moment.

"Indeed, Sir… or caused a much greater tilt. I believe, then, that beyond this hatch there is no water, or perhaps very little. Shall I open it, Your Majesty?" Penny enquired. More people, including the Duchess and young Libby, were crowding into the airlock. They would have to move on or go back.

King Denys smiled grimly, then quoted an ancient poem, saying,

" _On the plains of hesitation lie the bones of countless thousands who,_ _When victory was nigh, paused to rest, and resting, died._ Onward, Good My Lady, to whatever awaits us, beyond."

The lovely blonde noblewoman nodded once, then took up her multitool, and set to work.


	21. Chapter 21

:)

 **21**

 _Thunderbird 4, in the deep ocean over Pacifica City, just a little bit earlier-_

One thing about acceleration, time-wise, it frickin' hurt. The air in his rescue sub seemed to convert itself into syrup; burning hot, and hard as h… _heck_ to push through. Charlie was moving up front, but so very slowly, as Gordon went repair-panel-diving. Must've cut himself a dozen times on wires and parts that weren't designed to be handled at ten times normal speed. Had to reach past a constellation of shimmering, stationary sparks and several small fires; careful not to touch all that dangerous, time-frozen energy.

Got the job done, though, because if there was one thing Dad and Brains had always hammered into him, it was: _know your Bird._ (Did y' catch that? He'd almost thought 'D*mn Bird', and then… Sh*t. Never mind.)

Anyhow, Gordon Tracy wasn't one of those guys who could field-strip and reassemble their vehicle, blindfolded. That'd be Virgil, or John. But, he could replace shorted components and splice up a few curling, burnt wires like nobody's business. Took maybe ten subjective minutes, as… in real time… Thunderbird 4 drifted ever closer to that wavery patch of blue sky and lost city. Charlie would count to ten, five times, Gordon knew. Then, he'd lift his hold on the sub's interior, bringing the aquanaut right back to normal.

All Gordon was after was restored steering control and power. Nothing fancy. Didn't even bother to slam the maintenance panel shut, once he'd wound up repairs. Just sprayed some chemical fire extinguisher, then twisted around and lunged forward, again. Knew better than to touch his steering controls. Would have snapped the twin go-sticks right off or shorted the instrument panel, at that speed.

Instead, as small Charlie completed his count in painful slow-motion, Gordon looked out through the viewport at some kind of… of hole, believe it or not. _How_ it existed, why it had opened up over Pacifica City, the aquanaut had no clue. Something to do with that transport device, maybe. What he _did_ know was that it seemed to lead to an ancient, wrecked city, at a much different time zone. Late afternoon over there, looked like.

Through that weird, shifting portal, Gordon stared down and sideways at worn, jagged buildings like a jaw full of leering teeth. Saw wreckage, trash, and rising water. Yeah, so… Thunderbird 4 had force shields, and some limited 'drop-glide' abilities, but that'd be a mighty long fall onto God knows what, and he had work to do, here.

"Ten!" he heard his son shout, and was all at once back in real time, fighting to control a whirling, juddering rescue sub, in what felt like a frickin' tidal wave.

"Hang on, Chip!" he told the boy, who grabbed tight to his armrests, and nodded.

Next, Gordon cut hard on the starboard control stick, gunning his engine past redline. Thunderbird 4 slewed sideways, like a hydroplaning ground car. She rattled, flexed and shook; that normally silent engine screaming panther-loud. The portal swung in and out of view as Gordon directed his Bird away from that gaping hole. Tried to, anyhow. That much water, falling that fast, was tough to claw his way out of.

Honestly? He would have lost that fight, had the portal not suddenly vanished, leaving Gordon smack in the midst of a twisting, wild vortex, headed right at Pacifica City. And, _oh sh*t, oh sh*t, oh sh*t,_ because, unless he could get the sub back under control again, he was going to hammer that perma-glass dome like a cannonball.

Maybe he said a few words. Might've enriched his young son's vocabulary to doctorate-level. Did _not_ hit the dome, though. Instead, turning the Water Bird nearly sideways, Gordon shot through a wide, round opening in the city's crumpled, trench-side support leg. His shields flared as they scraped past protesting metal, but he didn't do any real damage.

Slipped around backward, tumbling like a leaf in dark water, then steadied Thunderbird 4 just over that yawning undersea trench. Its muddy lip was collapsing faster than ever, now; weakened by seaquake and portal. Yeah. Time to get busy.

Once more deploying 4's grasping arms, Gordon began plucking floats from his hull and setting them gently onto that wrenched, twisted leg. Figured he'd brace that one first, then stabilize the rest of Pacifica City with additional, carefully placed emergency floats. Not simple, at all. Each float first locked on magnetically, then flash-welded, and could not then be shifted. Gordon had to position each one just right, the first time, or waste time cutting it loose.

This was quite a task, considering that the city's support legs were every one of them the size of a giant suspension bridge. Worse, the whole structure was tilted about thirty-two degrees trench-ward, and still slipping.

Charlie had meanwhile abandoned his seat restraints to kneel on the chair cushion, both hands braced on the instrument panel, staring outward; eyes wide, jaw dropped. Knew enough to keep quiet, and sometimes gave time a small nudge this way or that. They were getting it done, though. Working together, father and (stubborn, stowaway) son were saving a city.

Even Scruff was working, keeping a sharp button eye out for new portals. See, Gordon had no idea why the thing had opened up in the first place, or what had induced it to close… but he didn't intend to get caught by surprise if it happened again. He was in a race against the trench's unstable, crumbling edge, and the spider-like city's damaged support legs. Last thing he needed was…

"Hey, Fish-stick! You okay, down there?" Virgil cut into his thoughts, speaking from high overhead.

"Yup," Gordon responded, not taking his eyes from the viewscreen. You couldn't just trigger one float at a time. Not without tearing the whole dang city in half. "All good, down here. Five floats in place, nine to go. How's it going, topside? Did you manage to duck that power-flare? Heard anything from Buddy and Ellie?"

"Eh," shrugged his older brother, verbally. "It got a little rough, but I made it. Nothing solid on the Pendergasts, yet, but Dad thinks he might have a lead. I'll keep you posted, Kiddo. Send me whatever schematics you've got, and I'll pass it up to Thunderbird 5."

"Gotcha," Gordon nodded, hitting a series of switches. "And, uh… you're not gonna believe this, Bro, but… there was a hole, or something, right over Pacifica City. Like a window, only its other side was a city, somewhere else. Daytime, there, so… other side of the planet, I figure."

"Sure, why not?" Virgil grunted. Then, sounding wistful, "Remember simple problems? Buildings on fire? Landslides? Capsized cruise ships? Crap like that?"

Gordon shrugged his broad shoulders, working a tension crick out of his bunched muscles.

"If everyone minded their business, obeyed the laws and did the smart thing, we'd be out of work, Virge."

"Maybe so," remarked his brother, as Gordon began performing an especially crucial maneuver; finding just the right underbelly spot for a twelfth float. "But, it'd be nice if all the mad scientists, crazed villains and dumbass attention-seekers would take a break, once in a while. A month, y'know? Just a month, where the worst that goes wrong is Grandma's peanut-butter-salsa casserole. Er… sorry, Grandma, if you heard that. It's delicious. Seriously. Can't get enough."

Imagining their grandmother's likely response to that blunder, the aquanaut grinned. Charlie was listening avidly all the while, because "Uncle Verbal" was his favourite Nother-brother, after "Uncle Allum". He stayed quiet, though, because he wasn't supposed to be down there. Only, _duh…_ Dad needed him!

"Okay, Virge," said Gordon, after maybe ten further minutes. Shooting the complete layout of those floats up to Thunderbird 2, he went on: "I've got 'em in place. Will inflate at your go-ahead. What happens then? It'll take, like, six months to get everyone off there, one trip at a time."

"Funny you should ask, Godfrey," came a _really_ welcome voice, over the comm buoy. "Me an' a passel o' Mikes is headed y'r way, right now. Doc swears he built this 'ere Bird ta go anywhere at all, in whatever conditions," boasted Lee Taylor. "Guess we're gonna find out real quick if he's right."

Gordon grinned almost wide enough to split his sandy-blond head in half.

"Dang, they're letting just _anybody_ drop in, now," he joked. "Next thing you know, the GDF 'll show up!"

"Don't hold y'r breath," growled Taylor. "Last I checked, they was held up by 'inclement weather conditions'. Must be sprinklin' over there, or somethin'."

"Naw," Gordon scoffed. "They're underwater. It's just a really loud fish-fart." Then, to Virgil, "How does my placement look, Bro?"

"Uh… Dad says put another float on the northeast edge of the city, just over the promenade brace. Says its gonna build up too much torsion, otherwise," responded the pilot, who'd already forwarded Gordon's schematics to Thunderbird 5.

"Everyone's a critic," grumbled the diver, nudging Thunderbird 4 around the city's perma-glass dome. Inside, his floodlights shone upon people waving up at him. "I'm on it, and tell Dad thanks for the assist."

"Will do, Kiddo. Suggest you place a hull speaker, too. We may have people trapped down there."

Gordon nodded, already prioritizing. Whole thing looked a lot more doable, with Uncle Lee on his way.

"Okay. Pulling away from the area… standing by to engage… and inflating… _now."_

Thunderbird 4 was no more than a brightly-lit speck in those crushing cold depths, but she was all the hope that Pacifica City had. At Gordon's signal, every one of those blinking red-orange emergency floats exploded to life at once, filling with wildly expanding helium gas. The noise was thunderclap loud; a spherical shockwave rocketing outward past Thunderbird 4 and that rumbling trench.

The floats swelled tremendously, slewing the undersea station back upright, again, and hauling that crumpled support-leg completely free of the ground. No doubt incredibly noisy inside, but at least they'd know that help was _here._ That they weren't all alone.

"Hang on, Guys," Gordon whispered, once the city stopped moving. "I'm coming in."


	22. Chapter 22

Thank you. :)

 **22**

 _Manhattan Island, in wild and trying circumstances-_

Scraping, clopping and sometimes hissing its vented gases, the pollution sweeper circled overhead; lit up by a sparse handful of pale LEDs. Green on one side, bug-spattered white on the other. John's attention lay elsewhere, though. Rather than watching the gourd-like sweeper, his gaze was locked to a tight little grouping of hurtling lights. _Might_ be his exopod. Might not. No way to be sure until way past the commitment point; when all he could do to escape was jump over-side and hope that a hungry plant didn't snap him up, on the way down.

No real weapons… Buddy and Ellie had those… so he'd have to out-think, out- _science_ , whatever was speeding his way with trouble in mind. Wished his head didn't hurt; that he didn't feel so much like just throwing up and collapsing.

Yeah… so, staring hard at that small, fast-moving constellation of blinking lights, John decided that it matched his image of the exopod. Only, there was a swarm of other devices right behind and above his maybe space-armour. Security drones?

Frowning, John stepped closer to the building's ragged edge and pressed his wrist comm, again. One little chirp, that's all. Enough to guide it on in. Then, he got ready to jump, turning to sprint in the same direction that his swooping exopod was headed. Would have triggered 'distort' again, but he really needed his armour to find him.

Some kind of particle beam shot out from behind the exopod, melting the floor at John's racing feet. He dove past the steaming new gap, rolled, and came up running once more, somewhat peppered with gravel and glass shards. Coughing blood, by that point, which was very much a bad sign. He heard the low hum of pursuing machinery and the sizzling noise of that red-and-white beacon, as well as his own hoarse breath and pounding footsteps. Cut across the truncated building, moving fast and staying low. Then his exopod arrived, dropping onto the speeding astronaut like the claw in a prize machine. With a series of sharp snaps, the flight gear locked onto his legs and closed tight round his ribcage, its twin wings spreading out with a brief and business-like whirr.

One step, running. Second long stride, getting locked into place by cold, hard metal and contact plates. Third, no step at all. Just a wild, soaring lunge into open air, over that serrated plate-glass wall. Hand controls found _him_ , rather than the other way around, seeming to grow right into his grip on both sides.

Air was f*cking _thick_ with armed security drones and something else… probes, it looked like, from Thunderbird 5. Eos must have found a way to help out, the astronaut figured. Had to twist and dodge to avoid crisscrossing lasers. Those beeping reconnaissance mechs behaved like a flock of starlings at a spaceport, meanwhile, blocking one laser-strike and target lock after another.

John took to the air, swooping well below the battle, at first, then climbing high above it, aiming to reach that patiently circling sweeper. Wind lanced around him; cold and fierce, stinking of sour, radioactive mist.

Then, something big and dark burst from the water below, to snap at him. A fog of rank breath hissed from its slitted nostrils. Dirty froth blew away from a mouth wide enough to stand up and stretch in. Those stained, jagged teeth were eight inches long, at a guess. Missed him. Scored on a drone, instead, which disappeared in that cavernous, fish-reeking maw with a bug-like crunch and a shower of sparks.

John kicked upward off of a mucus-and-algae covered snout. (Scared fairly close to sh*tless, actually, and ready to apologize… h*ll, to _kiss_ Buddy and Ellie straight on the lips.) The… thing… croc, mutant Lipleurodon, _whatever…_ dropped back into the mire below with a window-shattering splash.

On the bright side, less one more close call with a hunting security drone, John _did_ make it up to the hovering sweeper. Just, y'know, before the hole opened up again; this time, much longer and worse.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, somewhat earlier, up in the cockpit-_

If you guessed _'Alan Tracy hates to fly holding patterns'_ , step right up and claim your prize*. The youngest astronaut was ready to tear out his golden-blond hair in big, ragged bunches; forced to fly lazy figure-of-eights over the roiling north Pacific. People were missing, hurt, maybe dying, out there. Including some of his brothers.

Piper tried to distract him by talking music and videogames, ordinarily a sure bet to get Al's attention. Not this time, though. He had that tight, burning clench in his stomach that said he was needed somewheres else, right the heck _now._

So, y'know, he'd been sliding that holding pattern a little farther north and west with each lazy eight that he carved in the bright-dawning sky. Just sort of accidentally/ on purpose drifting along. Then, two things happened at once. His Bird's hypersensitive comm picked up an exopod launch signal… and then his astronaut brother's transponder designation flashed up on their suddenly active tracking screen: JTSF. Stood for 'John Tracy Space Flight', and usually meant that bro number two had left the station. Except, John wasn't up there, and Dad wasn't trained on the thing.

Alan and Piper looked at each other for a second; sky-blue eyes meeting ocean-dark ones. Then,

"The exopod's heading for John, bet me!" Alan blurted. "Thunderbird 3 might be the only one to pick up on it, 'cause I'm _supposed_ to be John's backup, in case something goes wrong, or he gets lost, out there!"

And, sure enough, that blinking green transponder signal was speeding away from the station as though "oh, crap" quick-summoned. Piper chewed her lip, nodding thoughtfully. Of course, the Colonel had told them to stay put… but nobody seriously expected them to _do_ that, right? Not when they'd just got a real, solid lead on John, and maybe the Pendergasts, too? I mean, _right?_

And then, to confuse things even more, Thunderbird 5 began launching every single probe she had; all of them heading up and out, straight for the western hemisphere.

"Got any stealth technology, A-T?" Pip asked him, not wanting to just flat out _disobey…_

Alan grinned at her.

"Are you kidding? Babe, no one but me, Brains and John knows what this Bird can do! Hang on tight, and get ready to be amazed!"

How was he supposed to remember that a fully shielded spacecraft, invisible to all scanners and sensor arrays, would pick up no incoming messages, either?

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere-_

There were ways that he could fight back; avoid responding to questions. He could turn inward, thinking of dumb, mind-clogging stuff like the exact taste of Penny's sticky-pink lipstick… the way the barbeque grill smelt, after a good scrape-down and cleaning… the feel of a long morning run on the beach. The taste of cold beer on a hot day, in the shifting shade of a palm tree. John's puzzled expression, then sudden, barked laugh, on finally getting a joke. Mucking out the horse stalls. Eating an apple.

There were so many questions; flat, insistent, demanding. They ground away at his mind, giving no respite. No rest. But, he did his best to clog up his thoughts with the sound of Granddad's deep, off-key singing voice. Virgil's piano. Alan's electric guitar on high reverb.

 _-When did you first meet Dr. Hackenbacker? -_

He didn't let himself answer that. Saw Gordon, instead, swimming laps in the pool, performing hundreds of perfect, lane-end flip turns while Alan did cannonballs from the diving board.

 _-Where did your father find Tanusha? -_

Small Kayo, opening presents on her first Unity Day/ Christmas with the family, getting Hello Kitty number one, and a red bicycle with fat white training wheels.

 _-How and where did you find Colonel Tracy, after his disappearance? -_

Leaping up to greet Dad, newly returned from Mars. His rough chin, cigar smell, and warm, strong embrace. Uncle Lee and Pete, Mom and Granddad, back when they'd all still been living and happy.

 _-Controlled by the Hood, wasn't he? -_

Dad, teaching him to fly, on that clear blue warm afternoon, when the sky went on forever, and nothing was ever going to change, or go wrong.

He held on to all of that, because they'd come. They'd know, and they'd find him. All he had to do was hang on and keep fighting.

XXXXXXXXXXX

* _A weekend date with Gordon, an actual worn-by-Scott IR Tee-shirt, a ride in Thunderbird 2, or the chance to get your butt handed to you, playing Alan at Zombie Run. Some restrictions apply, must be a WorldGov citizen to win._


	23. Chapter 23

A short one, this time. Happy Thanksgiving, you Guys. =)

 **23**

 _The prototype, gliding down at a very steep and rapid angle-_

Captain Lee Taylor had flown on earth, out through space, over the Moon's cratered surface, and up in the red skies of Mars. He'd also taken part in a rescue mission to Titan. What he had not ever done was operate a craft underwater… other than one hijinked stunt with a "borrowed" undersea tourist yacht, back in his wild academy days.

Well, there was a first time for everything, and Doc didn't build no junk. So, with the sun coming up and shields at maximum power, Lee cut straight for the ocean; flying a silvery, bat-shaped evacuation ship. Surface was kinda choppy, he noticed; ruffled by grey-green, fifty-foot swells and weird, glowing lights.

"Hang onta y'r processors, Mike," he said to the Minimax buzzing his right shoulder. "We burnt up a good bit o' fuel gettin' down here, so I figger on makin' our first load quick an' light, dependin' on circumstance." If the city was breaking apart, he'd take as many folks as he could cram aboard, regardless of danger. They could always be shifted to Thunderbird 2, on resurfacing.

That was Plan A, till a couple of rapid developments busted things up, starting with Beth's sudden,

"Lee, we just lost Thunderbird 4! Gordon's icon dropped clean off the board, right in front a' me. Can't hail him, neither. What's goin' on, down there?"

He hated to see a pretty lady all het up with worry, so…

"Can't rightly say, but I aim t' find out. Switchin' over t' Thunderbird 2… Vic? Need a status check. What've ya got on Thunderbird 4, Son? Y'r Auntie says Godfrey's up an' disappeared on 'er. Sumthin' wrong with th' comms?"

A brief burst of interference garbled Virgil's response.

"…on, Sir. I'll check," said the big, dark-haired pilot. The line fell frozen and silent for a moment or two. Then, Virgil's staticky image was back, looking concerned.

"Something's happened, alright. The comm buoy's still down there and transmitting, just fine. It's reporting no signal on the other end, though."

Taylor's heavy dark brows collided hard over icy blue eyes.

"Alright, then. Let's settle down an' work th' problem, Vic. Best case scenario, all we got here's a failure t' communicate. Worst case, sumthin's happened t' Godfrey." _And_ Chip, he didn't say aloud. "Need ta get down there t' find out f'r certain which one… but I was figgerin' on Godfrey's help with th' transfer. I'm one h*lluva feller, but I cain't fly, direct traffic onboard, an' rescue trapped people all at th' same time. Need ya t' get a remote pilot on 2, an' then shift over here with me an' th' Mikes. Hang on, Vic... y'r Auntie's still waitin' f'r news."

Virgil signaled "yes" with a rapid click of the mic, already making preparations. Just like Janice Ming was remotely flying Scott's Bird, Josh Kelly was going to have to take over Thunderbird 2, while Virgil evacuated Pacifica City, with Captain Taylor.

Gordon had said something about a hole in the water. Part of that transmission-disk failure, maybe? Had the hole opened up again, this time hauling in Thunderbird 4? There was just no way to tell, from five-thousand feet in the air.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait and watch from the sidelines, this time. Glinting in the pale light of morning, Thunderbird P had come up from below him, ready for transfer. Turbulence was a bear and a half, with the currents between their two Birds scissoring wildly in every direction. He'd made the jump through worse, though. Just had to wait for…

"Virgil, I'm ready to take over, if you want to hand off control," came Josh Kelly's calm, quiet voice and image. "I promise to keep her out of the drink, and stand by for passengers, Sir."

The cargo pilot grunted, not sure what gave him a sharper twist; handing over remote control of Thunderbird 2, or being called "Sir".

"F.A.B., Josh," he responded, hitting a certain green switch on his instrument panel. _"Annnnd_ … she's all yours. Just like the sim, Buddy, keep to the basics: level flight at all times, and watch your altitude. The weather, too. Storm systems can spring right up while you're back in the head, taking a le…"

"Language, Teddy," cut in Grandma, looking tense. "Y'r broadcastin' live."

…and Josh had over a hundred hours of sim time. Didn't need any mother-hen lectures from Virgil E. Tracy.

"Yes, Ma'am. Sorry."

Virgil released the steering yoke, then stood up and patted his Big Girl's curved bulkhead, murmuring,

"Keep him outta trouble, Hon. He's just a kid."

Looked around, once; taking in every noise, sight and sensation like a bracing, strong-coffee gulp. You just never knew. Then, it was time to strap on a harness, and step outside.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Down below, a short while earlier-_

Having righted the massive, domed station and halted its trench-ward slide, Gordon Tracy rode out the worst of that float-deployment turbulence, then fired up his Bird's single engine. Meant to head for one of the VIP docking bays, under Pacifica city, only it didn't work out like that. Something got in the way. He'd cut through about twelve yards of black, swirling water, when it happened, again.

Only, the hole that opened up _this_ time, was one h*lluva lot bigger. Much closer, too, with no blue sky on the other side. Only wavery darkness, sprinkled with small, moving lights. Scruff uttered a shrill squeak by way of warning, but it just didn't matter. Gordon couldn't have evaded that sudden, gaping portal, even if he'd had his brothers' Birds and the whole GDF locked on. Thing was _right_ in his path, and Charlie wasn't strapped all the way in, yet. Torn between steering Thunderbird 4 and bracing his flailing young son, Gordon picked Charlie. Grabbed hold and yanked the kid tight to his chest, needing the strength of ten.

Then, swept up by the most powerful current he'd ever experienced, Gordon was flung over some kind of mid-water cliff. There followed a brief few seconds of blank nonexistence, and then the sub just dropped like a rock, leaving Pacifica City once more alone in the darkness.


	24. Chapter 24

Thank you very much for reading and reviewing, guys. :) I hope that this Thanksgiving Day was filled with peace and plenty.

 **24**

 _The Yamato Spaceport Tower, Kyoto, Japan-_

Kayo had taken a running leap, launching herself through that windy, glass-dropping hole in the wall, and back onto Thunderbird Shadow. She'd left the Bird semi-cloaked and hovering, just outside. Retreated there, now, while Captain Rigby remained behind to deal with Dr. Reeves and the GDF. _His_ job, because regulations depressed her, and because Kayo wanted to find Scott, now. He wasn't answering anyone; not her, not Grandma, not Dad... and that was deeply worrisome.

Out in the open air, she performed a gymnastic flip; landing with perfect balance and control on the sweet spot beside Shadow's starboard engine nacelle. Came down with a slight, ringing _**spong**_ , to stand poised in the rising light of dawn.

The partly-cloaked aircraft dipped a bit, visible only to Kayo… and anyone else who could see in ultraviolet light. She could feel its smooth metal vibrating under her boot soles; a combination of idling engines, busy impellers and razor-sharp wind.

Turning slightly, the girl triggered canopy-open with a touch to her wrist comm. Didn't climb in, though. Just waited for Wayne, who was far better at dealing with red tape and sticky protocol than _any_ Tracy. Took him a handful of minutes to appear in that ragged opening, many stories above street level. He stood there looking out, one hand braced on a twisted girder. Kayo could see him skeptically measuring the distance across with his eyes.

"Oh, come on!" she urged. "It isn't _that_ far, Captain."

Her brothers would simply have vaulted the gap without thinking… except maybe Virgil, who liked to work with a harness. Raising his voice to be heard over buffeting winds, engine-rumble and distant loudspeakers, Rigby called,

"I can half-see what you're standing on, Miss Tracy… it flickers in and out of my sight." (No doubt thanks to his dormant guest.) "But I'm not sure that this jetpack still has enough go to… Never mind. Look out, I'm coming across!"

Blue eyes narrowed with sudden resolve, the Marine captain backed away from that opening and gave himself a sort of all-over shake. Next, he dropped into a racer's crouch, and burst into action. Running as hard as he could with just re-formed muscles, Wayne Rigby crossed that glass-littered floor like a shot, reached the edge and then sprang for Kayo's position. Triggered his sputtering jetpack at the last minute, hoping for power enough to make it across.

Wayne-before would not have made that leap. Wayne-now, boosted by the Survivor and a death-rattle spurt from his jetpack, sailed clear over the gusty void. He landed with a solid _**CLANG**_ , flailing for balance on the dipping and swaying wing. Smiling, Kayo put forth a hand to steady him, looking like… like he'd just passed a critical test.

"Congratulations," she joked, taking his hand to lead him over the wing and across to Shadow's waiting cockpit. Then, frowning, "Will Dr. Reeves be all right? And, what did you mean, about Scott departing unwillingly? You really think someone's kidnapped him? Seems more likely to me that he's off chasing the Chaos Crew."

Scott was far from the wildest of her brothers, but Kayo could see him doing something like that… barely. They were still holding hands by the time they'd got to that popped-open canopy. Said Wayne,

"I've left Dr. Reeves with a GDF Med-unit. He's in guarded condition, but they've promised to send frequent updates. As for your brother, a Yamato security-bot said that he suspected 'misfortune'. Those devices are operated by the tower, itself, Miss Tracy. Their understanding of human interactions… their vocabulary… is pitifully limited. They can greet, guide and warn. This one was trying to tell me something important, before GDF-Local showed up."

Tanusha stepped down into her seat. The agile young woman twisted in place as she did this, so that Rigby could get into his, without letting go of her hand.

"Right… watch that first step… Did the robot tell you anything else?" she asked him. The Marine scowled, saying,

"I'm not sure, Miss Tracy. It performed a sort of… squiggly dance, like it was sketching some kind of diagram on the floor. Sounds pretty far-fetched, I know."

Kayo shook her head, sending that silken black ponytail swishing across her slim shoulders.

"I live on Tracy Island, Wayne. The _Colonel_ is my father." Because he was, dammit! "Meanwhile, _you're_ playing host to an alien lifeform, and Reeves' device is punching holes in reality. One dancing robot isn't that hard to accept. Can you reproduce what he drew?"

Their hands squeezed tight, briefly, making the unspoken sign to let go. Naturally, as Captain Rigby recalled what he'd witnessed, Kayo peeked at his thoughts. Just a _little_. What she saw (besides herself) was a complex double matrix of lines and boxes, caused by the way that the robot's main wheel had touched down and lifted, scraping clean streaks through the rubble. Unaware of her eavesdropping, Wayne had pulled out his phone. He muttered imprecations as he struggled to reproduce the two shapes with his finger on the device screen.

The images he came up with looked halfway familiar, thanks to something that John had once shown her, on Thunderbird 5.

"That's ancient picture-writing," she said, watching him clean up and shift those black lines. "You know, from before Unity. It's the way Japan _used_ to write and speak."

Rigby looked up from his work, clearly uncomfortable.

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Miss Tracy," he told her, hurriedly clearing the picture. "There's no need to invoke illegal, outmoded thought patterns, here. I would, uh… _would_ like to get a translation, though. If, hypothetically speaking, the diagram _did_ represent a previous, divided language."

Kayo pressed him lightly to sit down and strap in, thinking hard. John was her go-to for ancient languages. He'd been saving old songs, videos and writings, for years. Only, John was out of reach at the moment. Also… anything she told their WorldGov liaison might be passed up the food chain to unfriendly ears.

"There might be something in a government database," she lied vaguely, meaning: _I'll run it through to Thunderbird 5._ "One thing's for sure," Kay added, sliding down into her own seat, and putting her helmet back on, "anyone who's kidnapped Scott Tracy is getting more than they bargained for. My brothers are tough, Captain Rigby. Chances are, we'll catch up with Scott just as he's broken free and subdued them all."

Wayne nodded, sending the picture he'd retrieved from his phone to Thunderbird Shadow.

"I'm certain you're right, Miss Tracy. Also, whoever they are, they can't have got far. Scott was in the stairwell, last I saw him. After the bomb went off, I may have lost consciousness for awhile, but it wasn't very long. The robot indicated that Scott was no longer on the premises, so he was either removed, or well-shielded."

Kayo pondered momentarily. She'd made a show of flying south before cloaking her Bird completely, and then doubling back to the Tower.

"Makes more sense that they've found a way to hide him nearby," she mused, drumming her fingers on the steering yoke.

"I agree. Can you scan the building and immediate surroundings?" asked Rigby. "You'll have better resolution than a factory-model security drone."

Inside the helmet, Kayo shook her head, no.

"Not while cloaked, I can't. To send or receive signals, I've got to drop stealth mode."

Wayne ran a hand through his ash-blond hair. His own helmet was gone, lost in the set-to with Havok and Fuse.

"Right. Let's try a scan from high altitude," he suggested. "All of those stacked-up freighters and blaring comm chatter should provide decent cover."

Kayo half-turned to look at him, smiling a little.

"Turning crafty, Captain?" she teased. "We might make a stealth operative out of you, yet!"

Or something. As Wayne smiled back, he wondered… was he becoming compromised by a genuine liking for the Tracys? By his growing attachment to Kayo? And if so… if push came to shove… which mattered more? His mission, or the family he'd been sent to report on? At the moment, Rigby honestly couldn't say. Was maybe afraid to find out.

His left wrist had begun to tingle and burn, meaning that the Survivor was fast recovering. Wayne rubbed absently at the baggy green cloth of his uniform sleeve, thinking: _'Not sure they'll be ready for this, back home… any of it.'_

Well, he still had time to make a decision, the Marine figured. Nothing was set in stone. He had to quit wool-gathering a moment later, because Kayo had blasted her Bird directly upward, punching straight out of the atmosphere to join that chaos of massed, waiting space traffic… and it took everything the captain had, not to stain her upholstery.

But the diagram? Those ancient, illegal symbols turned out to mean 'fortress'.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Somewhere else, struggling to fight off a constant barrage of invasive questions-_

Might have been just a trick of his yearning mind… but he thought he could see a greyish smudge in the darkness, like the sky, just before dawn. Something like sound, too; a sometimes-present whisper of noise. Mechanical, possibly? Whatever, he clung hard to these first weak signs of returning sensation.

 _-Why does the Hood despise Colonel Tracy? –_

He couldn't move at all. No physical feedback. No hot or cold or sense of touch… nothing. Not even the feel of his own breathing and swallowing. No memory of how he'd wound up here, even. Just question after constant, machine-like question.

 _-What are Dr. Hackenbacker's computer access codes? –_

Didn't react. Didn't respond, not even when,

 _-Are you able to summon the Mechanic? –_ flashed into his mind. Just saw Kane burning another big scar in the living room floor, as he jetpacked out to the pool deck. Grandma… face-palming. Fighting hard not to yell at their unwelcome guest.

These images sent a wave of grief and crippling loneliness surging through him, because Tracys were never alone. In response, he clung to that patch of shimmering grey, off to his right. Focused on the very faint hum of machinery. That was the key. Returning sensation held the way out.

 _-What do you know of your family's past? –_

His family… Suddenly, the terrible thought occurred: what if they couldn't come, because they were already _here_? Dad, Grandma, his brothers and sister… they might be imprisoned, too. Needing his help.

That was the moment he stopped waiting for rescue, and started making things happen.


	25. Chapter 25

'Allo! Not going to risk going shopping, today. Too hazardous. Getting the oil changed in my Jeep, instead. Happy countdown to Christmas! =)

 **25**

 _Pacifica City, far to the west and below-_

There were several large groups of refugees, crowded around sealed hatches or 'outside', under the perma-glass dome. Waiting in darkness and cold for instructions or rescue, they'd kept up their spirits as best they could.

Those above, on the park-like 'surface', had seen Thunderbird 4 moving around overhead, setting small glowing objects here and there on the city's great, curving spans. Those below had no such comfort, at first. All they knew was tilt and tremor, blackness and creeping, life-snatching frost. Breath misting in air that grew slowly staler, they huddled in sealed compartments and waited for rescue, sometimes knocking on the pipes and bulkheads around them.

Power had been diverted to keep up the force shields, leaving the city unable to coordinate its own trapped emergency crews. See, the push to convert an over-budget undersea research station into a playground for WorldGov's elite, had left critical gaps in Pacifica City's "incident readiness".

Bertie knew none of this, of course. He was only a small, gen-mod pug with an outsized vocabulary and high intelligence; smart enough to realize that something was very wrong, and that his friend/ mother/ alpha (insert complex scent and vocal-tone "name") was not present. This upset him greatly. He was a creature of action, surrounded by others of his playful kind, most of them panicked and howling. Deserted. Only the… very large bird?... remained calm; munching flowers and shrubs as it stalked through the freezing-cold dog place. There were _cats_ , too, on the other side. Bertie (Not his real name, though he'd respond to it. His own sort knew him as _'Rolls-in-grass-to-get-rid-of-the-stink'._ He did not enjoy perfume.) ignored those spitting and hissing not-dogs. Instead, looking up at an impossible to understand glassy sky holding back miles of dark water, he spotted something lit up and moving. Not a great fish. One of the 'cars' (they were all cars, to Bertie) that he'd sometimes ridden in, no head-out-the-window allowed.

The loud man was coming? Smells-like-salt? Bertie's short tail wagged, and he barked once, to let Smells-like-salt know where he was. Held on to two thoughts, when the ground beneath him started to shake again, going from hillside to flat: find Sweet-smell-soft-lap, and keep the very large bird from harm.

For her own part, Penny had just got that second hatch unlocked and was heaving it open… no water on the other side, thankfully… when the city started to shudder and creak worse than ever. The people massed behind her cried out in surprise, clinging to each other for balance. Over half of them were still crouched in the ballroom's maintenance crawlspace, waiting for the word to proceed.

Most would have tumbled and pitched through the ceiling's decorative panels, which were not well secured. Only, that glittering reddish energy flared brighter, suddenly, seeming to stitch the bulkheads and panels together. No one fell through to the half-flooded ballroom, below, at any rate.

Penny and His August Majesty, the Right Royal King Denys, clutched at each other and grabbed for the still-swinging hatch. The city was not falling, however. It was… was somehow straightening; returning to horizontal.

Penelope uttered a noise between laughter and sob, saying,

"They've come, Sir. International Rescue are here, I am sure of it!"

The king puffed out a long breath that was part shaky laugh. Bracing to ride out the quake, Denys nodded.

"No doubt, you are correct, Lady Penelope," he observed, gently disentangling himself. "And I would wager two gems from the state scepter, that they've been summoned by your young man, John."

Penelope hesitated. The fiction that she and Scott's brother were dating… had an actual romantic relationship… was good publicity, but entirely untrue. Right, then. All at once, Penny was done with lies.

"John is not my young man, Sir. He is simply a very dear friend, whom I often coerce into attending these charity social functions," she admitted, adding, "I _do_ hope that all is well with him. If not… if… if he's lost, it shall have been _my_ greed and insistence which doomed him."

Denys patted her shoulder.

"Chin up, my dear," he told her, very quietly. "Others depend upon you for strength and leadership. A Creighton-Ward is never dismayed… and the Tracys are well noted for their habit of charging through trouble with all flags flying. I shall make a further wager… of Kensington Park, this time… that your _friend_ is very much alive."

Penny sniffled and laughed, at that.

"I shall be most pleased to lose such a wager, Your Majesty… but what shall I offer in payment, once John proves you right?"

The king, a widower, said simply,

"Why, no more than a kiss, My Lady. With that, I shall deem myself amply repaid."

Penny blinked, very glad that the darkness hid her sudden blush and startled expression. Once, on a lark, she and Clarence had scarpered off to New Town, where they'd had their fortunes read by a wrinkled old hag called Isolde.

Clarence, she'd prophesied, was "destined for greatness". Nothing odd about that, for the heir to one of Britain's largest private fortunes. But Penelope's hand she'd stared at awhile, squinting and muttering. Then, peering up at her young Ladyship with watery eyes, the old charlatan had predicted a singular fate.

"You will live a long and complex life, with many loves. One of these will die defending you, one will turn his back, and one will break your heart."

…Well, old Isolde had got the "complex" part right, at any rate. Forcing a smile into her voice, Penny said to the king,

"You are most gracious, Sir. Shall we push chance a bit farther, and try our luck through this hatch?"

There was only cold and dark beyond it, of course, though Penny could feel a bulkhead ladder stretching upward. There was a peppering scatter of knocks and taps, as well. These came from too many sides to be certain of meaning or direction, unfortunately. There were others alive, though; that was certain… and Penelope had just the means to free them, if perhaps not the time.

"Having been successful thus far, I can only say: _forward!_ " replied the king, sounding cheerful. "However, we must leave a marker behind, so that your friend and your manservant may follow."

Grateful for the change in subject, Penny said,

"Very well. I shall go first through the hatch, Sir, if that seems good to you. Libby…?"

"Yes, Ma'am?" answered the young singer, through teeth that chattered with cold. She'd been supporting the shivering duchess, doing her best to keep the older woman conscious and talking.

"Signal the rest to come forward a few at a time… there's a good lass… and report their number to His Majesty once you've done, please."

"Yes, Ma'am, I'm on it," said the girl. She was a paying guest, not a servant, so Penny said,

"Thank you, Dear," before slipping out through the open hatch, trusting to luck and John's tuxedo jacket for protection. Complex lives, after all, were rarely safe or comfortable.


	26. Chapter 26

Hi, there. =) Thank you, if you have read and reviewed. Going through one of those phases where I'm scared to open and read them. I get that way, sometimes. It'll pass, I hope... Edited.

 **26**

 _Fighting his way out of darkness and silence-_

He had to learn more… find a chink in his prison… and those constant, droning questions were the best place to start. He was 'hearing' them, inside of his head. Auditory nerve stimulation? Or, actual telepathy? He was willing to bet on the former, because, if his captors could read his mind, they wouldn't need to interrogate. Instead, they were counting on sheer exhaustion and sense-deprivation to crush all resistance.

 _-Were any technologies received from the alien vessel? –_

He blocked that thought. Visualized the family sailboat bobbing gently at anchor, with gulls riding high, overhead. Sea breeze fresh in his face. John, with a book and a box of cereal. Virgil humming quietly, fishing for sharks off the stern. Slap of waves on the boat's white hull, thrumming lines, gentle rocking motion, warm sun.

If 'they' were triggering sounds in his head, then his answers were expected to show up on a brain-scan as words or images. And, in that case… he could lie.

 _-What is the Higgs Boson Generator? How does it function? –_

This time, Scott Tracy didn't ignore the question. 'Speaking' to the darkness, he formed words in his mind, nice and clear; just like he'd said them aloud.

"Who the h*ll's asking, and why?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Manhattan, New York, early evening-_

Reaching that big, clunky sweeper was one thing. Getting inside, something else, altogether. It was shaped like a gourd or a massive pear, with twin, giant fans at the bottom; their rusted blades churning up plenty of dank, poisoned air. Yeah, so… you could shoot on through _that_ way, but risked being shredded and tossed like a dead-hero salad, if your timing was off. Next?

There was also a catwalk and maintenance access hatch up at the top, in clear view of anything with altitude, guns and a grudge. Like, y'know, angry security drones. With lasers and particle beams dissecting the air all around him… scent of ozone, blinding flashes, sharp, hissing _shh-cracks_ … John chose to rocket through door number one. Safer that way, sort of.

It's true, you know; you see things in factual slow motion, when it's your priceless ass on the line. The sweeper's intake vent was round, and outlined in bug-crusted red LEDs. John risked lighting the exopod's high beam, but not till he'd vaulted inside. There was an old, rusted screen in his way; fragile as tissue, weakened by moisture, salt and radiation.

He tucked himself into a ball, folded the exopod's wings, and burst right on through. Got scratched up pretty bad, in the process… would need an ocean of tetanus meds, after this… but made it inside.

Just overhead… five, ten feet, maybe… the first set of giant fan blades churned and squealed like corroded butcher knives in a blender. Covered with rust and dripping with toxic slime, their radioactive edges actually glowed. Nice. Great place to visit. There was a second, counter-rotating fan just above that one, behind yet another d*mn screen. Well, no time like the present.

John could hear the sweeper's engine thrumming like a slow, mighty heartbeat. Could sense unlubricated parts grinding together like arthritic joints. This was a long-untended machine, trying hard just to do its d*mn job, and that went straight to the astronaut's heart.

As he gunned the exopod's ion generator, aiming for the spot where two long, sweeping blades were about _not_ to be, John grunted,

"Full overhaul… and refit… Seriously. Do it myself. _Promise."_

The mechanical posse outside had not given up, meanwhile. Although their programming would not let them follow, they could certainly shoot. Worse, John had much less room to maneuver, inside the sweeper. Made for a lively few seconds, during which the d*mndest things stood out. There was a big, flaking sign affixed to one slimy bulkhead.

 **CAUTION! WRONG WAY!** It advised, in peeling red paint. For some reason, John found this just one hella funny.

"I _know!"_ he responded aloud, twisting in midair to avoid a slashing barrage of green laser-bolts.

Then, a sudden alarm howled to life. John seized hold of a maintenance ladder as the sweeper's engine switched to reverse, blowing toxic sludge out and down at the hovering drones. For about thirty seconds, he was a flag in an effing tornado; pounded against the bulkhead, just hanging on. Gears ground together. Parts clattered and squealed as a sudden blizzard of rust filled the air, jamming sensors and blocking laser fire. Had to squint hard to keep the worst from blinding him… plus unholy h*ll on his lungs. Bought him some time, though, and for that, John was grateful. Couldn't just cling there; had to keep moving, while the drones backed off and recovered. Pass Scylla, say hello to Charybdis, collect two-hundred dollars.

The second screen was hardly corroded, at all, and the reason soon became clear. As he dodged raining shards and fogged lasers, John sensed the pest-catching force shield beneath it. Those things produced a deep, subliminal hum, and their job was organic contaminant disintegration. Yeah. In other news, he'd learnt seventeen ancient languages on his free time. Could think, " _Oh, sh*t,"_ in every single d*mn one of them.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _In the air over the Pacific Ocean, just after dawn-_

Thunderbird 2 held steady at twenty-one thousand feet, with the prototype outlined in early sunlight, a hundred yards below. Length of a football field, Virgil's favourite measuring-stick.

Harness and tether secure, he'd triggered the lower hatch, which dropped open like a startled mouth. Virgil braced himself on the ramp's shining pneumatic pole, because the winds up here were fierce. Smiling, he looked at the sun for a moment, watching it dim behind the responsive glass of his faceplate. Beautiful. A view like no other, with gem-blue, pink-washed sky and sparkling sea melting into one another. Like parallel lines, they met at infinity. Virgil could have stood there gazing for hours, but he had work to do.

Craning his head in that rattling, buffeting wind, the tethered pilot looked up at his Big Girl's green hull. _Something_ had struck her repeatedly, bringing life back to her main system, somehow. Had sounded like an effing _hailstorm…_ but there weren't any dents or scars that Virgil could see. Just smooth, undamaged metal. _Weird._

Once again, Virgil suspected the Mechanic, although he didn't say so out loud. Kane had a strange set of personal rules, but he _did_ have them, and would neither acknowledge, nor return, a simple "thank you".

Anyhow, the ramp had dropped to full-open; it's slight thump and halted motor cluing him in before the bright chime and flashing "all clear". (Memo to body-cam viewers: you _weren't_ supposed to ride the thing down, like that. Just… he knew what he was doing, stronger than average, in a hurry, blah, blah, blah.)

One gauntleted hand locked tight on the pneumatic strut, Virgil leaned out to look down at the Prototype. She rode the air currents; big, sleek and silver, just below him. Upper hatch was wide open, he saw, with a couple of Mini-Maxes flashing their welcome, inside. Virgil waved back.

Controlled his thoughts, because… yeah, John, Scott and now _Gordon_ were all missing in action, along with the Pendergasts… but worry didn't solve a d*mn thing, and never had. All a man could do was his best, as Granddad would say.

"Ready or not, here I come," Virgil announced, like he was about to do a cannonball into the deep end, back home.

"Roger that, Vic. Come on down. Cain't start this party, without ya," replied Taylor, dropping the prototype's shields.

Virgil chuckled. Then, giving his line another just-to-be-certain tug (go ahead and ask _how many times_ he'd been killed in sim by faulty equipment. Seriously. _Ask.)_ Virgil Tracy inspected his harness, then stepped off the edge and out into screaming thin air.

XXXXXXXXX

 _The New York Dead Zone, not quite simultaneously-_

Every frickin' alarm on the sub had gone off, at once. Every warning light, every caution ping. Complete chaos erupted, as her locational system struggled to cope with the sudden, wild change in position. Nose-down, now, Thunderbird 4 dropped like a rock in a churning waterfall. Gordon Tracy couldn't see what lay below… had only one arm free to work with… but he _did_ have a plan.

Shifting Chip around to a _(please, God)_ safer position, the aquanaut fired 4's steering jets at full blast. Slewed her around. Still falling, but facing upstream like a salmon confronting a fish-ladder. Punched it, and the h*ll with engine capacity and fuel consumption. Couldn't stop falling, _could_ slow down.

Charlie gripped his dad's arm super-tight, meanwhile; wanting to help, but scared that he'd do the wrong thing. That breaking the rules and sneaking inside had made this all happen. But,

"Love you, Kiddo," his father grunted. "Best day of my life so far, was meeting you. Whatever happens, remember that."

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Locked into stealth mode, headed northwest-_

They could no longer track the exopod's transponder signal, of course. Stealth shielding blocked all incoming data, as well as rerouting scans. Made Thunderbird 3 sneaky, alright, _and_ a gosh-darn hazard to navigation. See, effective invisibility cut two very dangerous ways. The sleek, crimson rocket was down to just visual flight, and out of touch with Thunderbird 5. Bad enough, when she had the skies to herself. Except, y'know, she _didn't._

With Pacific North freight traffic blocked, latecomers were doing the sensible thing; they were diverting to the next nearest spaceport, which was up in Winnipeg, Manitoba. All of them. Normally quiet air lanes had turned into a crowded hell of jockeying tankers and transports… _who didn't know Alan was there._

No way to get above or below that logjam, which stretched from rooftop level to near lunar orbit. Al had to punch right through, flying like Uncle Lee and ten-thousand videogames had taught him. Lucky he had a friend along, huh?

"Ore freighter, three o'clock!" Piper called tensely, as Alan handled the stick. Or, "Coming up from behind, closing fast, passenger liner. Gap half a mile straight ahead, if you punch it and rise, uh… five-hundred yards!"

Like that; only, add pounding heart, cold sweat, and true love.


	27. Chapter 27

Hi, there, me again... and in better spirits, too. Thank you for reading and reviewing, and for being so kind. It's back to work for me, tomorrow. Returning to the regular schedule. ;)

 **27**

 _In the upper reaches of the atmosphere, very high over Japan-_

Having found a "parking spot" amongst all those massed freighters and passenger liners, Kayo pressed a few switches and dropped out of stealth mode. At that, with a brief, blaring comm-signal, Thunderbird Shadow flickered back into view and plain scanner-sight.

Up here, cheek-by-jowl with hundreds of waiting spacecraft, Kayo could see the curve of the Earth… mostly ocean, from this vantage… plus part of the pale, setting moon. The sun was directly off to her right, but Shadow's canopy went automatically darker to cover its blistering glare. They were about as high up as Shadow could safely operate and (hopefully) well disguised by those milling, thronged vessels. So much for cover. Now, to find Scott.

Captain Rigby was already hard at work, trying to tune in her brother's wrist comm and body cam. Tanusha left him muttering to himself and tapping away at the device screen, which gave his halfway-handsome face a bluish-white cast. He was wearing a pair of foolish, endearing wire-framed glasses; felt that they made him look more professional, or something.

There was more than one way to hunt, though. While Wayne Rigby focused on his electronic tracking, Kay took a different route. Didn't pull her helmet off… too well trained in high altitude survival, for that… but did unstrap, and get as comfortable as she could in Shadow's tight cockpit. Not her first rodeo, as Uncle Lee would put it. She'd been involved in long stakeouts before, watching buildings for hours, sometimes days. Whatever it took, to hunt down a criminal. This time, her aim was different.

See, some months earlier, she'd gone with her father to the stronghold of the Kanes, who were cyborgs, like the Mechanic. There had been a meeting in progress, of all the "families"; genetically modified bio-weaponry dating back to the conflicts. (If she'd understood Dad correctly.) There, she'd encountered Nikorr Kyrano, who was… a distant cousin, maybe?

Whatever, he was extremely handsome, and he'd demonstrated some startling telepathic abilities. More, he'd wakened them in Kayo, too. Now, as Wayne mumbled and tapped behind her… as Shadow reverted to auto-flight… Kayo took a deep, shaky breath, and visualized Nikorr. Tall, green-eyed and dark-haired, like her. Well-built and slightly brooding.

Wasn't certain, really, how you went about psionically "calling" someone. Think their name very hard? Imagine a conversation? Was she supposed to just…?

 _ **-BLINK-**_

She'd moved. Was somehow no longer in Thunderbird Shadow, but someplace else. Only a slight feeling of pressure on her back and legs reminded the girl that her current surroundings were just a projection. And _what_ surroundings!

Several swift, darting glances showed her to be in an ornate and glass-domed tropical garden. Looking around, she saw marble statues of people and horses, tinkling fountains, exotic plants and jewel-toned, twittering birds. At least one lazy, meandering brook brimmed with fat, golden fish. An arched wooden bridge spanned the watercourse, inviting a stroll. The soft tones of a windchime filled that fragrant air with gentle, rainwater-music. All just a little _too_ perfect. Too bright and beautiful. Kayo believed not a whit of it. Not even the Wyoming landscape, glimpsed outside of that graceful dome.

"Where are you?!" she demanded, taking an aggressive step forward. The path at her feet appeared to be made from tiny, crushed gems in a rainbow of colours, and… for her own part… Kayo was dressed like a princess in filmy gold cloth and bright jewels. _Ridiculous_.

"Here," she heard, from far too closely behind her.

Whirling, the girl turned to face her vexingly handsome young cousin. Nikorr stood at ease on the path, holding two scratched and mismatched drink glasses brimming with pale amber fluid. Kayo took a cautious step backward… which did not result in any more space between them. Her cousin smiled slightly, saying,

"What you are experiencing is a group projection. A sort of meeting place, mostly produced by me. You haven't power or experience enough, yet, to influence the collective dream."

His own clothing remained what she'd seen in Scotland; a tight-fitting black bodysuit, with spidery crystals crawling all over his chest and wide shoulders. Weird, and unsettling.

"I would like you to stand farther away," she told him, after another quick back-pedal got her no further from Nikorr.

"We are technically quite far apart… but, very well. I shall retreat, somewhat."

And somehow, the space between them just seemed to stretch. There was a psychic analogue, too. His mental presence felt fainter. More withdrawn.

"Better?" he asked.

Kayo nodded suspiciously, accepting a glass from Niko. Looking closer, she saw that it was one of Grandma's old jam-jar drinking cups; the ones they used for everyday, back at the ranch house. The drink inside turned out to be warm, slightly spiked apple cider, with a cinnamon stick. Her favourite. Kayo scowled.

"How did you know about…?"

Nikorr snorted, then drained his own cup in a single, stiff-wristed gulp.

"We _are_ in mental contact, Tanusha. You opened your mind, when you called me. I assumed that you would be comforted by familiar touches. Thus, the drinks and these tropic surroundings."

If anything, that stubborn, willful scowl simply etched itself deeper.

"You're reading my mind?!" she demanded.

"Slightly. Your shields are nonexistent, your power completely unfocused. My predecessor moved in and made use of your talents, but provided no training, whatever. A _child_ could best you."

For a second or two, the girl considered flinging her drink in his face, but… _cider._ Too good to waste on a wise-arse who'd probably just make the stuff vanish. Seething, Kayo drank it down. Best she'd ever tasted: warm, spicy and just sweet enough, with a hint of a bite, from whatever Lee or her brothers had dumped in the punchbowl.

"I'm looking for my brother, Scott," she told Niko, handing back the empty glass. "Something tells me that electronic searches won't do any good, but that _you_ could find him, if you wanted to."

The young man's green eyes narrowed, in something like disgust, or reflexive contempt.

"He is not your brother," growled the Kyrano, making their drink glasses vanish, along with most of the beautiful garden. "He is the muddied and fouled descendant of a runaway government test subject. _Our_ ancestors fought for their freedom. That first Tracy fled, like a coward. You consort with mongrels, Tanusha. Not your fault… the previous Kyrano's doing… but unforgiveable, now that you know better."

Their clothing had changed, Kayo noted. She was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved green tee-shirt, now. He had on a smart, charcoal-grey suit. Looked expensive, but she was too angry to very much care.

 _"Do… you…know…where…he…_ _is_ _?!"_ she growled, through tight-gritted teeth.

Nikorr folded both arms across his broad chest; stood there, regarding her with perfect, unruffled calm.

"I do," was all that he said in reply.

"Can you help me to get to him? Is Scott in any danger?" she prodded, refusing to ask whether or not her brother still lived.

Nikorr's head cocked slightly leftward, sending a few strands of black hair into his deep-green eyes.

"Why would I wish to? One less Tracy can only be regarded as a positive development."

"Because I'm asking you for _help,_ that's why! Because, what if they come after _you_ , next? Unless…" her slim, dark brows drew together, in sudden consternation. "Unless _you're_ the one who's kidnapped him! Is that it?! Are you holding Scott hostage?"

Nikorr snorted with laughter, and conjured more cider. Stronger, this time, and served up in much larger cups.

"My dear, confused Tanusha," he began, but…

 _"Not_ your dear _anything,_ Git!" she snarled, moving into a fluid crouch; thence to spring up and kick the illusory drink right out of his hand.

Well, that was her intention, anyhow. The blow never landed, and Niko did not even flinch. _Her_ spiked drink disappeared, but the smug young Kyrano got to finish his.

"This is not a physical place," he reminded her, making his emptied jar go away. "And you are not in control, here."

Then, as she stood there, glowering,

"I will make… what is the term… a 'deal' with you, Tanusha. Favor for favor."

Progress. She wasn't going to agree to just _anything,_ though. Not sight unseen.

"What're you really after?" Kayo asked, as tropical blooms were replaced with icy scarps and wind-driven snow.

"A chance to tell our side of the story. I do not wish you to leave the Tracys. Not yet. Having an agent among them is good, especially as they've been harboring that butcher, Kane. I simply wish you to learn of your _true_ family." Niko waited, but Tanusha said nothing, so he went on speaking. "Your father, _my_ father and Vikran… the so-called 'Hood'… were brothers. Only one remains alive, and he is manifestly unfit to lead this family. You or I should be _the_ Kyrano… but you were stolen away by Jeff Tracy."

"He saved me," she whispered, thrusting aside long-ago terror and pain. Did not want to go back. Refused to examine life before the family that loved her.

"Your parents saved you. Tracy merely _found_ you, afterward. Your mother was unworthy; a half-blood, herself… but the Kyrano was besotted. Wanted to open us up to still more of the vermin. He would not listen to my father's reason, or the Hood's threats."

"So, they killed him and Mama," she accused, in a small, barely-there whisper.

Nikorr shook his head. The stream had iced over, by this point. Still incongruously bridged in delicately-carved wood, though.

"No, Tanusha. Vikran killed _both_ of our fathers. I was full-blooded, young and of little consequence (having a low-ranked mother). I escaped his notice. Also, he was and remains a colossal fool. Well, the vermin have him, for now, and I am Kyrano. There is no quarrel between us, Tanusha. I would welcome you home, once certain matters are resolved to my satisfaction."

Kayo took a deep breath. The snow-scape around her grew blurred and shaky through unshed tears, but she would not break down. Not in front of her arrogant cousin.

"I _am_ home," she insisted, in a ragged low voice. "Like my father, the Colonel says: there is nothing you can do or say to ever change that, _Kyrano."_

Nikorr's head jerked back, and his green eyes narrowed, as if the depth of her furious emotion had come as a slap. He…

"…okay, Miss Tracy? Kayo? Can you hear me?"

Somebody's hand was on her left shoulder, gripping warm and tight, and shaking her slightly. All around her, the welcome and wonderful sounds of Thunderbird Shadow beeped, rumbled and chirped.

Reflexively, Tanusha reached up to seize the big hand that was patting her shoulder. Wayne, she remembered suddenly. Wayne Rigby. And then, up there near space, surrounded by traffic, she started to cry.


	28. Chapter 28

One more, little short one, because I seriously could not get this scene out of my head, all day long! Thanks for your patience, guys. :) Edited!

 **28**

 _High in the air above Pacifica City-_

Dropping on his tether like a spider ballooning on a long, silken thread, Virgil Tracy crossed the gap between Thunderbird 2 and the Prototype. Dicey proposition, because roaring, snapping, buffeting winds spun and swung him, giving that depthless horizon a wild, drunken sway. Still better than space, though.

As he paid out his steel-alloy tether, sliding ever closer to the round, open hatchway, below, Virgil started to think: _Japan… families… Kane… Scott gone, and the Chaos Crew unaccounted for…_ Right. There were a lot of pieces to that puzzle, but the pilot reckoned that he might still be missing a few. Chewed on the matter for awhile, then grunted, saying,

"Heads-up display, personal comm list."

His helmet's receiver chirped obediently, then opened a small, glowing screen beside the shifting _'distance to target'_ data. The newly-conjured display held a list of numbers. Better yet, it tracked his blinks and eye-movement, allowing the big, dark-haired pilot to scroll through his contacts. Anyhow, Virgil selected one of the numbers, waited a bit for connection, then muted his body-cam feed and said,

"Kane, I've got a question for you."

He was about thirty feet closer to the bat-shaped prototype, but swinging like a pendulum. Had to wait for Captain Taylor to move his huge, silver Bird into better position, and cut off some of that battering wind. Plenty of time for a call, in other words.

"Speak," came the brief and guttural answer.

"Yeah, thanks. Listen, who's in charge of Japan? Is there a 'Special' family making their base, over there?"

Josh was doing a pretty good job of holding 2 steady, meanwhile. Well-taught, obviously.

"Japan is Hiro territory. Effing shape-changers. They can mimic whatever they've touched, up to a point. Can't imitate cyborg parts very well, or copy a subject's memories. You through wasting my time?"

Virgil snorted, watching the sun whirl in and out of view; reeling swift and loose as a tipsy dance-partner.

"Yeah, Buddy… love you, too. And, uh… thanks, Man, for any hypothetical services you might have provided, recently."

The Mechanic hung up on him, which was just fine with Virgil. He'd nearly reached Thunderbird P by that point, and had to stop talking, anyhow. Three of the Mini-Maxes darted out of their hatchway lair, battling air currents and inertia to reach him with a tether and harness clip; this one connecting Virgil to the rumbling Prototype.

That steel-alloy line was heavy. Almost more than three small robots could handle, even working together. They got it up there, though; allowing Virgil to take hold and link up.

Now, he hung suspended between the two rescue ships, like a wind-rattled bead on a long, silver cord. Rest was a frickin' cake walk, though. Just had to slip down the line, pass the faint, hair-lifting crackle of hull shielding, closer and closer, till he'd landed with a solid _**THUNK**_ on the Prototype's space-burnished hull. Feet scrabbled and slipped for a bit, until his boot-soles locked onto the Bird's electromagnetic field. Only then could Virgil unclip and release the tether to Thunderbird 2, giving it four sharp tugs in a bold, symphonic rhythm.

 _Tuh-tuh-tuh-_ _TUUUUG_ _!_

Instantly, the line began reeling itself up and out of the way, back into Thunderbird 2. Virgil lifted a hand in farewell, as the giant green cargo-lifter banked away, her engine noise changing from roar to shrill scream. Her belly caught the sun as she went, making that huge white "2" flash like a neon sign.

 _"D*mn,"_ he thought, _"She's beautiful."_

Then, it was time to head on inside and get to work. Virgil pounced through the open hatch and onto the Bird's metal deck, landing with the coiled grace of a panther.

"Welcome aboard," boomed Lee Taylor's flat, drawling voice, loud as thunder over the comm. "Ain't no inflight movie, no free drinks, an' no reclinin' seats. No stewardess, neither. Me an' Mike's th' purtiest things onboard… But y've just scored y'rself a first-class ticket f'r this here historic maiden sea-voyage. Any last words?"

Virgil grinned up at the nearest bulkhead camera.

"I'm hungry," he responded, because the last thing he'd eaten had been a cheeseburger and onion rings with fancy-sauce, while Grandma shopped for supplies… _how_ long ago? Ten, eleven hours?

"Beef jerky an' case o' beer in th' mini-fridge," said his uncle. "Plus, some o' y'r auntie's best Vienna sausage meatloaf. All three major food groups, right there. Put some hair on y'r chest."

"Uh…" said Virgil, wondering who else was listening in, and how best to respond. (Hey, Grandma!) Unclipping the prototype's tether, he triggered hatch-close, shutting out freezing wind and wild noise. "Sounds great, Sir. Thanks a lot. Be up in a second."

Well… beer and jerky had been Virgil's salvation on more than one occasion, although this time, he'd stick with bottled water. Body-cam audience, y'know?

 _"Shape-changers,"_ he thought, striding forward. _"Could they help me find Scott and Gordon… or are they causing the problem? And, how do you get in touch, to find out?"_

With a city to save, and the frickin' oversight committee watching his every twitch, Virgil wasn't sure how to start investigating. Was willing to bet that not much went on in their territory that the Hiros didn't know about, though. Could he get them to talk, was the issue? Or... would it be smarter to clue Kayo in, and let _her_ do the wall-to-wall questioning? What if they touched her, and stole her shape? Or Scott's? Too much to think about, too little time, and way too much trouble, ahead.


	29. Chapter 29

Hi, there. A brief interlude, by way of moving things forward. Hugs, and warmest thanks. :) Edited!

 **29**

 _Awakening, once more-_

As ever, upon regaining consciousness, there was a brief instant of startled dislocation. Of shock. As a being of pure, focused energy, the Survivor was accustomed to constant flux and wild motion, and to storing information in the amplitude and frequency of his own waves.

When dormant, he converted himself to a pattern of lines and dots on the skin of his organic host. Not just out on the surface, although 'Rigby' wasn't aware of it. The Survivor-code had stamped itself down at the DNA-level, too; altering Rigby forever.

At any rate, springing back to awareness felt to him as though someone had shut a book… or paused a game… and then much later resumed reading or playing it. Time had passed. External conditions had altered, but he was the same.

Examining his environs, Survivor found Rigby in a primitive non-living aircraft, with the young, carbon-base female he desired as mate. Sampling his host's brain chemistry, he learned that Rigby felt concern for 'Kayo', who was evincing distress with her noises and facial distortions.

This was fortuitous, as Rigby's mind was more easily accessed when his conscious thoughts were occupied. Having made sure of his host, Survivor turned to their conveyance. They were quite high up in the atmosphere, he discovered. All systems focused on scanning for 'Scott', who had ceased to radiate, spreading ripples of unease throughout his carbon-base Spectrum.

There was concern, as well, for those ported test subjects, who remained missing. These, he could quite easily locate, having caught and propagated their fading signals, when the transport disk had first malfunctioned. Well enough. Needing to reverse a life-course of unspeakable violence, Survivor chose to act.

Without disturbing Rigby (who seemed to be progressing well with his chosen female) the Survivor simply left him behind. In a flash, he transferred his essence from erstwhile host, to machine. Then, moving at the speed of light, he traversed a scanning wave out of the hovering aircraft and thence to the slow-tilting planet below.

Like a bolt of emerald lightning, he crossed through the layers of Third-World's rare atmosphere, then plunged down into its ocean. There, his speed slowed, and his danger increased tremendously, for the sea's upper regions were filled with microscopic, energy-slashing plants. Fortunately, green was not their preferred wavelength. In other words, he "tasted bad".

Those first hundred haads were still a frantic clutch and scramble, as he zipped through immense clouds of vampiric plankton. Took occasional breaks by printing himself as code on fresh, algae-free rocks, but these were few and far between on this carbon-mucked planet. In fits and starts, then, Survivor reached the safety of dark, colder water.

Flashing past blind things that drifted, and currents that oozed, he soon reached that gaping-wide portal. By-passed it entirely, as much too dangerous, for a being composed of living energy. One _had_ tried to make use of it, though. The Survivor detected faint traces of 'Eos', one of the artificial sentients created to serve the Tracy Island Organics. Young and foolish, she had risked passage through a doorway that was terribly hazardous even for beings with genuine physical structure. Well, she'd paid for her careless haste, and the Survivor would waste no time seeking a mere construct. He had other business, further down.

Within minutes, the speeding energy being had crossed to the relative safety of the crust; penetrating that dense, chilly rock as a rapid vibration. From thin, brittle crust, with its trenches, seamounts and magnetic scars, he passed to the hot, slow-churning mantle.

'Saw' the crust from below, with its star-like pattern of embedded and flickering diamonds. Then, on down through the mantle, riding the same currents that stirred the continents above. Here, Survivor strengthened himself, gaining power from the sheer, ferocious energies of the place. Third World-below was much more impressive, and safer, than World-above, he thought.

Survivor might have lingered a moment longer than necessary, simply basking like a beachside Organic. Three minutes of travel brought him to the planet's counter-rotating metallic core, which thrummed an eternal deep chord as it spun. Encased in many layers of flowing magma, the core was imprinted with its own small versions of the continents.

These shot across the face of that iron globe like the shadows of clouds, creating wild magnetic storms in the molten rock. The survivor took it all in, sipping at the auroras surrounding negative Europe and Asia. Very sustaining. There were living beings there, wisps and sprites composed of heat and magnetic flux, but he hadn't time to socialize.

Instead, skirting the rumbling core itself, he passed on through mantle and crust to the world's other side. Specifically, to a small, toxic island at the edge of a giant landmass. There, Survivor found terrible chaos and urgent need.


	30. Chapter 30

Hi, you guys. :) Thank you for reading and reviewing. Will respond, as soon as I've got the laundry sorted and folded. Stories come and go, but laundry is eternal...

 **30**

 _Manhattan, inside of a large and corroded machine-_

Call it a one in a million, what-the-h*ll shot. A spit-at-fate gamble. Whatever, as he fought through whirling rust-flakes and howling, hammering wind, dragging himself up the inside of that sweeper, John tried something different.

The decontamination screen sizzled and cracked overhead like an extra-large bug zapper. Highly dangerous, but triggered by sensors. After all, why waste power when there was nothing around worth frying? Tended to limit its charge to suit the catch of the day, too. Airborne bacteria needed miniature jolts; mutant insects, a bit more voltage; trapped, dumbass heroes, an effing lightning bolt. So… what if it just didn't _see_ him?

Tough to reach the right shirt button, whilst clamped into his exopod, but John managed to trigger that handy 'distort' feature, just as the fans' rotation switched again, this time yanking him violently upward. He'd been holding tight to a bulkhead brace; one foot on a lower rung, the other seeking his next fragile toehold. When the currents shifted, that corroded brace bent, screeched and then came off in his hand.

John was flipped completely up and over, tumbling like a leaf through wild, blasting air and gashing debris. Tough to see and harder to orient, but years in space had taught him to keep his head, no matter what.

Spread the exopod's wings once more, and then vaulted upward. Decontamination screen was right there, popping many-headed bugs like corn. No way to avoid it, so he didn't. Just took a deep breath and plunged straight through a low-setting kill field.

Yeah, so… as an experience, not recommended. Seriously, skip it. That base-level magno-electrical zap passed clear through his body, triggering every nerve he possessed. Wasn't just pain. Was everything, all at once, a million times over. He might have grunted something vivid in old Italian; a language uniquely constructed for cursing in. Afterward, felt like he'd been hit by a bus, then run over, backed onto and dragged about fifty yards. Not finished yet, either.

Second screen had to be got through, and this one was not much rusted, at all. No choice but to waste time looking for its one hinged emergency panel, then jimmy the lock and squirm through. Three minutes, _minimum_.

Next came the interior fan. It had slowed somewhat, but still sliced the air into quivering shreds just above him, making a business-like hiss as it went. Well, halfway through, right? Nothing left but to throw the dice and see what happened.

Finding a decent eddy… almost a calm spot… in the sweeper's bulging midsection, John eyed the pace of those long, gleaming blades. Then, when he figured he'd got it timed about right, the astronaut punched his exopod's little engine and shot forward.

Grandma liked to claim that her grandsons each had a guardian angel. If so, John's was the fricking hardest working of the lot… and somebody owed him a case of beer.

Got through, just. Lost some paint from the exopod's right wing and a bit of shoe leather, but retained all major body parts, and that was a win. Behind fan number two lay the sweeper's collection tank. Older model. Refrigerated, bulky and loaded with toxic slime. Needed new filters, John noted, on his way past. Also saw someone's ancient, folded-up lunch bag, there on the service gantry. Found himself hoping that they'd liked their work and enjoyed their meal, before… whatever.

Fifty feet higher, he was finally into the sweeper's maintenance control bay; coughing, shaking and half-blinded with rust, but alive. Would have liked to collapse, but… yeah. Buddy and Ellie. The infected explorers were out there, right now; probably filming their way through that monster reptile's digestive tract.

John nodded, and got himself together enough for a swift look around. This part of the sweeper featured a railed metal catwalk and workstation, making a broad ring around its thick midsection. Goosing a little more go out of his exopod, John swooped across to the safety of that circular deck; landing with a soft _tchik_ upon pierced, faintly vibrating metal.

There were more safety placards up here, along with basic controls, urgently blinking lights and… what he was really after… a med station. By this time, the astronaut's ears were ringing, and he was seeing double. Head felt like something inside it was trying to blast through his skull. So nauseous, that even the air tasted bad.

"Didn't even get drunk, first," he grumbled aloud, limping toward the med station, which was marked with a big red spoon-and-bottle sign. The noise up here was muted, with no drones or lasers to harry him. Just a scratched, failing leg and probable radiation poisoning.

He passed a large view screen on his way around. Below that lay a blinking control panel, still waiting for input.

"In a minute, promise," he said, patting the sweeper's rust-flecked dashboard. The seeker drones were still out there, he noticed, circling his lifeboat like sharks. John gestured rudely through the window, because he wasn't dead again. Then, he got his battered ass moving.

At the med station, another bulkhead sign gave helpful "in the unlikely event" pointers. But, he didn't need all that. Just yanked the panel open, for the goodies he hoped were inside.

Right. Bandages… disinfectant… antibiotics… aspirin… tetanus meds (grabbed those) anti-nausea pills (that, too) and chelation tablets. So, you know how, when you're in a real hurry, and everything's critical, you have to move slower, be extra careful? John knew he was sick. Possibly dying. Knew that somewhere, two sweet, confused people were waiting for rescue. He'd _promised._

So, the astronaut kept his movements cautious and purposeful. Dropped nothing. Made no mistakes. Just got the cap off that pill bottle and swallowed about three chelation tabs. Would be pissing heavy water for the next month, but he'd get that Goddam radioactive crud out of his system.

Next, cleaned and disinfected the scratch on his leg, which had begun to heat up and turn purple. Nice. Slapped a bandage on _that_ , and hunted the next most important item: an antidote for the plague that had doomed New York City, and most of the eastern Territories. Found it, in a small, dark, syringe-draw bottle. Past the expiration date, like everything else up here, but better than nothing. Enough doses for all three of them, too, because sometimes things go right.

Useful life tip? Always read the label, first. This one boasted side-effects like disorientation, memory loss, unconsciousness and death. Better to take it on safer ground, John decided, once he'd found the Pendergasts and had a little more breathing room.

Then, as he was putting his finds into one of the suit's expandable 4-D trouser pockets, John turned to face the view screen, again. That's when the skies outside opened up, and all hell broke loose.


	31. Chapter 31

'Allo! I think I've responded to most of your kind reviews. Will double check, just in case. And, tip of the hat to Disney and Buzz, for their really cool line, too. Edited more!

 **31**

 _Elsewhere, trapped in lessening darkness-_

That grey patch was growing brighter, he was sure of it. And the sometime-noise… those infrequent whirring and beeping sounds… seemed to contain snatches of speech. Only, he couldn't understand what was being said. That was weird; very unsettling, because… other than John, for fun, sometimes… no one ever used different languages. Unity forbade it; like religious belief and political parties. Even regional accents were fading. "All are one", as the WorldGov motto proclaimed.

So, whoever had him wasn't official. They couldn't be. Not that he'd had much time to think these things over. Those questions had suddenly taken a very much harsher tone.

 _-Why have you allied yourselves with a wet-handed, rebel Kane? –_

Sorry. No. Since they weren't answering him, Scott ignored them. Tried to focus, instead, on finding and moving his right hand. Even the thumb, or just a few fingers. If he could fight his way through that d*mn block, regain control of his own body, he could break free. Find the others, who were probably down here, too. That would change everything, because… with John and Virge at his side… no one could keep Scott Tracy _anywhere._

Only, he felt like a cloud of thought, drifting in some kind of echoing void, with only questions for company. Worse, his reasoning was becoming more sluggish. Scott had to wonder: how long ago had he last eaten or drunk? At home, on the balcony… Max bootleg soda and a roast-beef sandwich with crisps. Since that time, nothing. Was he being hydrated and drip-fed? Or had they condemned him to die of hunger and thirst, unable to so much as breathe on his own, or swallow?

 _-What is Dr. Hackenbacker's true identity? –_

Heh! Good ol' Brains… He saw the poor guy, huddled nervous as h*ll on a wooden bench, during one of his family's pick-up basketball games. Brains was supposed to sub in, but hated to play against Scott, John and Kayo, or Virgil, Gordon and Al. Got creamed every time he set foot on the court.

Wistfully, Scott remembered the feel of that thudding hard basketball, bouncing off concrete and into his expert hands. The swishing, ringing sound the ball made, as it arced through the basket from midcourt. Heard running footsteps and grunts, saw Virgil's arms upraised and waving, trying to block his shot. Kayo, wide open and signaling for the ball. He could see her right by the goal, glowing with sweat and determination; dark braid swinging. Threw her the ball with all of his might, thinking: _Kay, where are you?_

And then, believe it or not; so faintly, he might have been wishing it, the pilot heard,

 _'Scott?!'_

…followed by total silence. A crashing down of blackness like nothing he'd ever experienced. A hammer, squashing him back to unconsciousness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Falling, with style-_

Thunderbird 4 was a game little sub, designed to handle whatever the water could throw at her, and keep on chugging. See, emergencies happened in all sorts of places; from the oceans, lakes and rivers to flooded caves, icy moons and toxic retention ponds. He'd braved them all in his bright-yellow Bird. Now, Gordon Tracy was doing his best to pilot his way down a tidal wave- waterfall. Backward.

Engine on full blast, scanners running at wide-angle sweep, sweating bullets, the aquanaut used his steering jets to avoid tons of hurtling debris. Because, yeah. There was all kinds of crap in his way, on top of everything else.

Charlie hung on tight, not hiding his face or closing his eyes, either. Just clinging to Gordon's uniform sash and watching the scan feed. Would make a h*ll of a rescuer, someday. A h*ll of a _Tracy._

Ground had to be somewhere nearby, he figured; hopefully pretty well flooded. All he had to do was survive the drop; just make it to level water, no matter how turbulent or fouled with detritus.

The noise and vibration were fierce; a combination of alarms, engine scream, torrential roar and crashing, pinging debris. Shields absorbed most of the fury, but 4 shook and rang like a struck, falling gong, even so.

"It's right there, Dad!" Chip shouted, pointing at the scanner. "There's the water, right _there!"_

Yeah. Fifty feet, and closing too fast.

"Hold on tight, Kiddo," he said, "It's gonna get rough. You might black out. If we're still in one piece, hit the comm. Yell for help."

…because, in his mind, anything at all could happen to him, but Charlie was going to stay safe. Just a kid… _Please..._

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _In the air, high over a troubled undersea city-_

Virgil headed forward at best speed, barely pausing to hit that minifridge and snag a few sticks of beef jerky. Bottle of water, too, which he drained practically inside-out, then tossed to one of those hovering Mikes… er, _Maxes,_ he'd meant to say.

Up on the barren flight deck, he shook Lee's hand, then dropped to the copilot's seat with a gusty, " _Whuff!"_ of mingled stress and exhaustion. Strapped in, still busily chewing.

"Welcome aboard, Vic," his uncle repeated, smiling broadly. "Good ta see ya."

Much like his prototype Bird, Lee was a basic kind of guy. Would do the job every time, without fuss or frills (although you could expect some bold and outrageous lying, afterward).

"Thank you, Sir," Virgil responded, around a mouthful of spicy, half-chewed meat. (And, _God,_ he'd been hungry.) "Pleasure to be here. What's the plan?"

Lee's salt-and-pepper mustache split in a sudden wide grin.

"Same as ever," he chuckled. "Drop in there, put our ass on th' line, and come back smilin'."

Taylor was already pushing the steering yoke forward, to nose the Bird sharply down. A couple of rapid keystrokes brought her shields up to full, sealing all hatches with a chorus of thundering _**CLANGs.**_ Engine noise changed pitch from idle purr to powered roar, as the horizon began to tilt crazily, and her viewscreen filled up with nothing but restless green ocean.

"Hafta… do this… jus' right," Taylor grunted, diverting more power to forward shielding. "Gotta make us some cavitation. Get that top layer broke up with bubbles. Musta done it a million times already, in simulation."

 _Uh-huh._

"How many times in real life, Sir?" Virgil enquired. Just, y'know, for information.

"Countin' today?" the astronaut mused. "Wunst… but I trust Doc's figgers. Hey… know how them engineerin' boys deals with constipation, Vic?"

"Nope," Virgil responded tensely. That ocean was scary close, now; not looking 'broke up', at all. "Can't say as I do, Sir."

Taylor winked an icy blue eye at the younger pilot, saying,

"They work it out with a pencil."

That's when they hit the surface. Beaten to froth by the forcefield, sea water hissed, popped and spumed like a geyser; shooting hundreds of yards in the air, to hang there in glittering diamond sheets before crashing back down.

Virgil's white-knuckled grip on his armrests relaxed by slow degrees as they A: didn't die, and B: began powering lower, without breaking up in the process. He'd dared the water in Thunderbird 2 once before, but she'd been fitted for space, and _he'd_ been at the controls. Différent situation, altogether. Taking a deep, shaky breath, the handsome young pilot laughed at himself.

"Looks like Brains' got himself another winner," he ventured. Taylor nodded.

"Told ya. Always bet on them skinny, bean-countin' neck-beards, Vic. They know whut they're doin'." Then, "Island Base, from Don't-rightly-know-whut-we're-callin'- 'er. We're in, Beth, an' headed f'r Pacifica City."

Sally Tracy's concerned face appeared before them, in glowing holograph form.

"Understood, Lee. You boys be careful down there, an' keep us posted, regular. Josh's got Thunderbird 2 warmed up and ready ta back you-all up. Fixin' cheeseburger puffs f'r supper, tonight, so don't keep a body waitin' too late."

Her image and voice seemed to fade as the prototype ship plunged lower. Captain Taylor mouthed something silent and personal before she'd quite vanished. Then, clearing his throat, he fired a comm buoy, and got right back to business.

Virgil had been down in Thunderbird 4 once or twice… more often, if you wanted to count sim-time… but this was different. The prototype's hull flexed and creaked, adjusting to pressure changes. Being mostly uninsulated, still, it also beaded right up with condensed breath and vapor, making the bulkheads sweat. Her cabin temperature dropped, and the light level changed from watery-pale, to green, to murky blue and then darkness; speared through by glittering flood lights. A singular trip, for a guy whose every instinct was for staying _out_ of the Goddam water.

"I got a fix on 4's last known position, Sir," the raven-haired pilot began, because talking helped him control his hawk-in-the-water nervousness. "If he isn't there…"

"Then, we'll know that them energy flares is sendin' more 'n just Pendergasts wanderin' crost th' globe. All o' them missin' folks cain't be no coincidence, Vic."

The muscular middle Tracy frowned, turning things over in his head. Some of Lee's notions matched what he'd been thinking.

"You figure the transport disk's opened some kind of… dunno… _portal?_ One that doesn't need the machine, to operate?"

"Cain't rule nuthin' out at this point, Vic," the Texan grunted, tracking Gordon's last transponder signal. "Cain't make no definite plans, neither. Not till we see whut we're up against, here. Just be ready f'r pretty near anythin'."

"Yessir," Virgil nodded, unstrapping to rise. "If you don't mind, I'll head aft for a look at that diving pod. Might be able to make some adjustments, and help things along."

Anything was better than staring out the viewscreen at drifting pale motes and startled sea-life. Offered Lee that last stick of beef jerky, even. Taylor nodded again, not taking his eyes from the instrument panel. Said,

"Thanks," then added, "Make sure we c'n dock with th' city's access ports, Vic. Best equipment in th' world won't do us one d*mn bit o' good, if we cain't hook up."

"That's what she said," joked Virgil, adding, "I'm on it, Sir. Send me the specs."

Virgil was halfway to the Bird's construction hold when he (with John, Dad, Alan and Kayo) felt… scratch that, _knew._

"Oh, sh*t. Scott."


	32. Chapter 32

Hi, guys. :) Getting a quick one out, before I head off to join the merry throng of Christmas shoppers. My favorite season of the year. Kind of different, this time around, because of Mum's passing, but she's still here with me, in heart and love and fond memory. Edited.

 **32**

 _Somewhere-_

The time had come for a change in plan. Direct questioning had produced very little in the way of useful information, for the prisoned subject was stubborn. Recalcitrant. There were ways around this, of course, but not with the time and technology at hand. Instead, a message had been sent and permitted to propagate, meaning that "rescuers" would soon break in, searching for their captured ally. Some were alarmed by this prospect, and chose to retreat. But, managed correctly, the arrival of unwitting, would-be heroes simply created more _sources_. Let them come, this "kao" and "ribby". They, too, would be fathomed and used.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Pacifica City, in groaning darkness and cold-_

In the entire history of sudden, welcome appearances (Bertie from that cunning, pierced golden box, on Unity Day… Scott, through her unlocked balcony doors that first, wild night…Virgil, when she'd just about worked herself free of those d*mned railway tracks) this one came near to topping her list. Penny had chosen to climb up that maintenance service ladder, because survival instinct recommended height-above-situation, always. She'd got ten yards or so, pausing occasionally for breath, and to rest her cramped muscles… when someone spoke up, saying,

"Mornin', Milady. H-If y'll take me 'and, H-I'll 'elp you through the 'atch, 'ere. Mind yer step."

There in the chill, damp blackness, surrounded by flexing and creaking metal, thousands of miles below water, she'd encountered a friend.

"Parker!" exclaimed the weary young noblewoman, feeling about for his hand. "You've come at a _most_ opportune time. Is our John present, as well?"

Parker's work-roughened hand closed around Her Ladyship's, drawing her up off that access ladder, and through a doubtless "safe-cracked" hatch. Beyond lay a smallish room, with echoes that indicated a second, nearby opening. She heard some rustling noises… possibly the driver, shaking his head.

"No, Milady. 'Ee weren't down in th' ballroom, f'r all of me searchin'. Found… well, there were some as couldn' be 'elped anymore, Lor' bless 'em… but no Mister John. I expect 'ees found h-another way out, Milady."

(As for his own, very near brush with disaster: if a lifetime of cat-burglary didn't prepare a bloke for getting through doorways in all sorts of circumstances, then what was the point of becoming an article-liberation specialist?)

Penny inhaled sharply, absorbing this crushing news. She was, of course, perfectly capable of managing a rescue unaided… but another friend, especially one with John's devilish luck… would have been most welcome.

"I see. Well, as you say, Parker, he has no doubt taken an alternate route, and shall be joining us, presently. For the nonce, there's work to be done. His Majesty awaits us, below… and International Rescue are most certainly on-site, repairing and righting the city."

Another rustling noise followed. Most likely a nod, this time.

"Best we get to 'em, then, quick h-as possible. H- Are y'r guests in condition to climb, Milady?"

Still battling disappointment, Penelope sniffled. Then, squaring slim, half-frozen shoulders, she said,

"They are British, most of them, Parker. They shall rise to meet the occasion. As for the Yanks… hybrid vigor, and all that. The Duchess may require a bit of aid, however, and there's dear Bertie yet to be found. Quite the filled dance card, and not a moment to waste. Carry on, Parker."

She'd retained his big, rough hand, all this time; now turned it loose with a single, fond squeeze. Somehow, her situation had just become infinitely less painful and frightening, because there was one more voice in the darkness.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, dodging and weaving through scary dang ship traffic-_

Pip hadn't felt it, but Alan just knew. Something was wrong. Something awful had happened to Scott.

"Oh, crap," he whispered, almost smashing right into a lumbering government ore freighter. Seriously, got close enough to see the guy's eye-color.

"What?" Piper asked him, still watching her view screen like a tall, pretty hawk.

"I… it's hard to explain, but… but we gotta get out of this crowd, Pip," he urged, biting his lower lip. "I gotta call in and find out what's happening."

The worried young astronaut wasn't giving up on John or the Pendergasts… not without a bust-your-face fight… but his gut told him that Scott was in sudden horrible danger. That he needed the rest to come running, right the heck _now._

Piper didn't ask any more questions, 'cause, y'know… she was cool, like that. Just started calling out altered directions, faster than ever before.

"Up about fifty feet, A-T, then west a few klicks, behind that fuel tanker; widening clear space."

Alan responded without consciously thinking; flying in direct response to her calm, rapid words; golden-haired astronaut and flower-crowned goddess, thinking and acting as one. Pip rapped out a stream of coordinates while Alan flew, making 3 dance and flit through that crowd like a ruby hummingbird.

He hadn't had sex, yet. Had _heard_ all about it… read some stuff… used to dream a lot about Kayo… but never… you know. But, maybe it was something like _this?_ Like being so close to someone that you were moving and thinking completely together? Total trust, on both sides?

Anyways, they got up out of the worst of that space traffic (denser than back when he'd been dragging the stupid nuclear mine, even) and Al dropped out of stealth mode. Took a sec to hug Piper, real tight, then hit the comm.

"Dad… ( _Shoot!)_ Um, Thunderbird 5 from Thunderbird 3. What's going on, down there?!"

Didn't get an answer right away, 'cause he wasn't the only one asking.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Far below and away, in the silvery prototype-_

Captain Lee Taylor hadn't had much experience with deep-sea operations, but even so, conditions struck him as downright peculiar. On the way down, he'd encountered strange flashes of light, turbulent, spiraling water, and fleeing sea-life, getting worse as they plunged. Some of those critters didn't belong this high up, neither; seemed that whatever was going on down below had frighted them clear on outta their homes.

"Vic," he said, hitting the comm, "Ya might oughta strap down, back there, Son. Conditions is about ta get a mite rough, looks like."

"I… yeah… yessir. Just, something's happened to Scott. He's in real trouble."

Still nosing the prototype downward through swirling dark water, Lee caught his breath in a sharp grunt. He knew that the boys were close to each other, but never considered no psychic contact; thought maybe Spence' d gotten a quick SOS off, using a hand-rigged comm, or something. Anyhow, didn't question Vic's insight. No time. Referring to trouble, he remarked,

"Lotta that goin' around, lately. Them folks in Pacifica City needs our help, too… but I'll send a line up t' Base, an' see whut I c'n find out, f'r ya."

After a moment, the younger pilot said,

"Yessir. Thank you, Sir."

…but it sounded like them words cost him plenty to get out. Taylor got through to Island Base just as the submarine city came into view; supported by wavery floats and outlined in shimmering red; the trench a black, yawning gulf right beside it.

Off to the west and rising… moving ten, maybe twelve yards a minute… was some species of "winder" or hole. Them flashing lights seemed to be coming from in _there,_ some kinda way. Vic was right, Lee decided. A portal _had_ opened up near the city. Blew thoughts of ol' Spencer dang near outta his head.

"Island Base, it's me again… Got a situation down here. I'm guessin' that transport contraption's gone clear off th' rails… an' Vic says he got a message from Spence. Says he needs help."

Calm as could be, after a few long relay seconds, Beth come back with,

"Understood, Thunderbird P. I'll get Brains ta find an' trace that message. You boys do whatcha got to, an' come back safe. Need some specs on th' transport malfunction, too. Anythin' you c'n send me."

Taylor nodded, dove perilously close to Pacifica City, and began scanning pictures for relay. Weirdest thing he ever saw that wasn't in space nor on Mars. Just a big, drifting hole with a clear, starry night on t' other side, outlined in crackling energy. Question was, where'd it fetch up at? Which stars? _Whose_ night?

Had Godfrey and Chase plunged through that winder? If so, there wasn't room for the hulking Prototype to follow them. Hole was too small, and… and sorta spinning, like a "bet me, heads or tails" coin on a bar-top. He'd 've got through with less than half a Bird if'n he'd tried… but Lord, didn't adventure pull at him.

Only the presence of young Victor and all of them trapped people kept Lee's gloved hand off the throttle. Man had to take care of business, afore he went haring off after wonders. Sent up his scanned images, then said,

"Looks like that winder's movin' away from Pacifica City, Beth. Think I'm clear t' begin hook-up, with th' divin' bell. Me and Vic's gonna ride it on down, whilst Mike an' his boys mind th' store. Lookin' forward ta supper, Pretty Lady."

"Better make it quick then, 'cause I ain't settin' down ta eat till y're safe, both o' ya."

Lee smiled, making his greyish-brown mustache bristle.

"Back 'fore ya know I'm gone, Beth." (Which didn't make no sense a-tall, but got a laugh outta the prettiest woman he'd ever known. She'd hit him like a runaway truck, even back when Jeffrey 'd introduced them; back when she was hitched up to a man too fine to think about robbing.)

Half-laughing, Beth said,

"I'm holdin' you to that, Lee Taylor. Jus' bring y'rself an' everyone else back safe. Island Base, out."

And then, it was time to get busy.


	33. Chapter 33

Another short one. Only, it didn't quite belong with the last chapter, nor the next. Kind of off on its own. Thank you for reading and reviewing, my friends. It's nice to share dreams and fancies. ;)

 **33**

 _Thunderbird 5, in high, geosynchronous orbit-_

Having launched a passel of recon drones, and ordered Alan the h*ll away from that quarantine site, Jeff Tracy was pretty near stymied. With three sons missing and a wildly expanding emergency on his hands, the Colonel had to tread very carefully. Far from simply malfunctioning, that transport device had apparently opened a link between the deep ocean, and one of Earth's most notorious dead-zones; Manhattan Island. Worse yet, John was there, somewhere, with maybe the Pendergasts, his young grandson, and Gordon.

Scott… was just plain missing. No trace left and no ransom demand. No WorldGov _"we regret to inform you"_ notice, even. Just the gut-wrenching, sick-making sense that his oldest boy was out there alone and in trouble.

Alan, at least, had called in, while Virgil was headed for Pacifica City with Lee Taylor. Safe enough for the moment, both of them, if worried sick and busting for answers.

Doctor Reeves was down for the count, meanwhile (an ancient reference, that one; prize-fights had long since been outlawed as divisive and overly violent). He'd been hospitalized in guarded condition, and could offer no help, at all. Brains was understandably reluctant to dust off his own version of Tycho's stepping disk, for fear of creating another set of linked holes. As for the Chaos Crew… nobody knew for certain, but scuttlebutt said they'd been killed; blown to bits by the _Mechanic,_ of all people. Either way, paid in full for the damage they'd caused.

Right. Jeff would have given a lot to have some solid deck underfoot to pace, or one of his desktop executive toys to manipulate. H*ll, someone to talk to. _Eos_ , even. How, he wondered, did John manage, up here alone?

Beside the point, he supposed; switching comm settings for someone he truly did not want to open up to. Except, there was no choice but to face the snake's head, so... Coded line, priority signal, which oddly enough went through the first time.

Jeff squared his shoulders as the WorldGov star-and-plow symbol flashed up on one of his floating holo-screens; blue, white and golden. Then, Chancellor Shaw picked up, smiling as blandly as ever.

"Good afternoon, Colonel Tracy," he said, almost purring. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this contact?"

Sebastian Shaw was tall and broad, with an athlete's powerful build, and a spider's intricate mind. Well over six feet in height, with dark hair and pale eyes, he exuded icy menace.

"Good afternoon, Chancellor," Jeff responded warily, one hand on a nearby instrument panel as a way to control his own drift. "This isn't a social call. I'll get right to the point. Doctor Reeves' transport device has created some kind of wormhole effect, and we're not yet sure how to shut the thing down. I've got people on site, but we're going to need backup. As many subs as you can muster, Sir… And, uh… I need to ask for an honest response, here, Sebastian… Have you taken my sons?"

Thunderbird 5 was a noisy place at the best of times, having always a low background rumble, along with her beeping and humming life support system; the whole thing shot through by the constant, ghostly hiss of incoming messages. Now, though, Jeff shut it all out, watching nothing but Chancellor Shaw's image, there on its hovering screen.

The other man started to speak. Only, his expression changed. Something about those hooded grey eyes altered. Then, he said,

"My dear Colonel, had I wished to apprehend your sons, I should have done so with far less extravagant drama. You and your brood are wildly popular; lauded and beloved by the grubby masses you persist in aiding. To arrest any one of you publicly would amount to political suicide… and I am only telling you this because I am being controlled. In my own mind, I believe myself to be speaking deceptive words in order to mask my ambitions."

 _Uh-huh._ Jeff felt very cold, all of a sudden.

"Who am I talking to?" he demanded, dreading the Hood's chilly voice. But the man only smiled, shaking somebody else's darkly handsome head.

"One who will make a very bad enemy, Colonel," he answered evasively. "One who means to put an end to this vermin-led chaos, once and for all." Then, cocking Shaw's heavy left eyebrow, he issued a warning. "You are marked, Colonel; all of you. Be advised that your rogue Kane cannot save you, Tracy, for he will be next."

 _Keep him on the line,_ thought Jeff, placing an energy trace on that scary d*mn call. Who knew? Maybe Brains 'd be able to find…

"…a team, of course, working together for the public weal," Shaw continued, as though nothing at all had just happened. Completely unaware that he'd been seized and controlled like a puppet. "The world joins you in moving heaven and earth to locate your stalwart young sons, Jeff."

Drivel and platitudes, concealing the drive to control International Rescue, and everything else. Taking a deep breath, Jeff managed to fake a smile.

"I… thank you, Sir. That's good to hear, and… Uh-oh. Incoming message," he lied, reaching for the main comm switch. "Sorry, Chancellor, I've got to go."

So saying, Jeff Tracy shut off that haunted line and just drifted, wondering what in the h*ll he was supposed to do, now.


	34. Chapter 34

'Allo! Thanks, Bow Echo, Susan, and Thunderbird Shadow, for reviewing. :)

 **34**

 _Dropping like a powered, bright yellow rock, along with the draining Pacific-_

Those last fifty feet used up over half his remaining fuel, because Thunderbird 4 wasn't meant to land on her tail like a rocket. Not in a frickin' tidal wave, anyhow. Maybe no one else on the planet could have managed that white-knuckle, half-controlled fall… but Gordon Tracy knew his Bird and his element, and he had every reason to survive, sitting right there on his lap, holding tight to his yellow sash.

Came down… kid you not… maybe an arm's length away from a snapped and crumbling building. Debris was everywhere: chunks of cement, long shards of glass and corroded steel, plus office furniture and a matted tangle of snapping plants rained down around him, each blow draining 4's shields even further.

Gordon persevered, piloting his way through a maelstrom of water and junk. No clear view of what lay below until, **BLOOSH!** and then **WHUMP!** as 4 struck the surface, plunged in, and then flopped horizontal, once more. Thundering water, bubbles and crashing debris drove the sub downward, into the midst of a flooded and turbulent plaza. His lights scarcely penetrated that cyclonic murk, which looked like Titan or southern California, on a very bad day. But, they'd made it. They were going to be…

Teeth. No, _jaws_. Gaping wide and moving fast, right at the struggling IR submarine. Size of a city tour bus, had to be. Charlie was panting hard, two seconds from screaming aloud, but Gordon had no time to comfort his son. Just hit 4's harpoon cannon, firing the barbed, steel-alloy weapon straight into that cavern-sized maw.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Higher up, meanwhile-_

There was an old, pre-conflict saying: it never rains, but it pours. Not sure they'd had a bucketing ocean in mind whenever they mentioned it, though. John had barely collected those med-stuffs… had just got himself fixed to set out…. When the sky unzipped once again, gushing water with a roar like Last Day, Armageddon and Ragnarok rolled up together in one _gotcha_ package.

Not directly on top of the sweeper (thank whoever's task was keeping one battered astronaut alive and functional). Off to one side. The resultant pressure wave sent his rust-bucket refuge reeling and tumbling through the night sky. Inside, alarms blatted and croaked. Stressed hull plates screeched a metallic whale-song. Faded warning lights sputtered feebly, as something big and yellow fell past. Looked almost like... Nah. Couldn't be.

John would have got tossed like dice in a cup, but he had his exopod. Was a tough guy to disorient, too; used to all sorts of weird angles and sudden changes in motion. Managed to keep himself upright and stable… hung onto that salvaged med-gear, even… as the sweeper cartwheeled around him. He could sense the computer's distress and confusion. It did not understand what was happening, and that thought went straight to John's heart. Okay, see, he'd promised, right? So, the astronaut zipped across to the sweeper's instrument panel, meaning to help get it righted and de-fragged. Used his sash data-port to forge a link and jack in, only to get a very perplexing surprise.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird Shadow, stooping shrill and swift as a hawk-_

She'd had some sort of contact from Scott. Kayo was willing to swear to it. Maybe because she'd been thinking so intensely about him… or because that brush with Nikorr Kyrano had prodded her growing "powers". Possibly owing to sheer emotion, or the sudden release of tears, once wrapped up in Wayne Rigby's arms. (Tougher than it sounded, in a two-seater, fore-and-aft cockpit.)

Now, her face wet, cheek yet tingling from the brush of his scratchy square jaw, Tanusha flew like she'd been let out of hell on a three-day pass; fast, direct and straight to the point.

Captain Rigby 'd barely had time to return to his seat and strap in, before Kayo went hunting. That contact, brief as a whispered prayer, led her straight down to Japan. Specifically, to Kyoto's massive, ornate Nijo Castle, site of an ancient capital. Reconstructed since the conflicts, the palace rose many stories into the late morning sky; girdled by towers and parklands. A monument, not a center of power.

Kayo didn't question the source of her information; how Scott had been able to reach her, how she'd known right where to go… but Nijo Castle could be thought of as a fortress, right? Maybe that's what Rigby's security bot had been trying to tell them?

At any rate, Thunderbird Shadow plunged from the sky in partial-cloak. Invisible to the eye, though radar would pick her up, if anyone happened to look. Kayo brought her Bird down to just above roof level, scanning for robots or guards before she committed herself. Saw nothing but wildlife… strange, for a major Japanese city. No humans or mechs, at all. Then,

"Holy smoke, would you look at that," muttered Rigby, staring through Shadow's canopy at a pagoda roof teeming with silent birds. Most of them dark, one or two golden as sunlight. Kayo chuckled.

 _"What?"_ Wayne demanded, all at once very self-conscious.

"Nothing," she told him, reaching around to brush his face with a trailing, gloved hand. "You're… really _different,_ is all. It's kind of sweet."

Those watchful birds weren't doing any harm that she could see, and as far as her psionic skills, Kayo was busily reaching for Scott. Wouldn't have known a bird's mind from a caterpillar or background E-M ripple. Every creature, every _being_ was different. They had got to be learnt, like a language. At any rate, Scott was here. He had been, at least. Kayo could feel nothing, now, but perhaps they'd moved him again, leaving clues she could pick up and track.

Turning to Rigby, Kay put her helmet back on, saying,

"Give me five minutes, then follow. Be ready for anything. We're dealing with criminals, kidnappers, and the gloves are _off,_ no matter what Scott told you in practice."

Rigby's blond eyebrows drew together in a tense, nodding frown.

"So, more Marine, less lawyer?" he hazarded.

"Exactly," Kayo agreed, popping Shadow's canopy. "A _lot_ more Marine."

Wind… fresh, cool and scented with pine… came swirling inside, as Kayo unstrapped and got up. Shadow's left wing was just over the castle's graceful, tiled and curving roof. No problem at all.

"Luck," Wayne told her. "I'll be right behind, with a Marine's primary weapon."

Having been raised with five rowdy brothers, Kayo braced for the sure-to-come joke, but Wayne only smiled and said,

"His _brain._ Whatever happens, I'm coming in after you, Kitty. You won't be alone."

Kitty? Her room still abounded in stuffed, blank-eyed Japanese cats, and she had a tattoo, even, but… Nickname. He'd nicknamed her. Maybe that meant something good?

"Mind on the mission, Captain," she rebuked him, though not very fiercely. "We're here to find and rescue my brother."

Only, that wasn't quite how matters worked out.


	35. Chapter 35

Hi, you guys. =) Thank you for the reviews, which any minute now, I'll get brave enough to open and read. Next weekend, Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be on my way to Japan to visit my daughter. Might be some interruption in normal output. Edited more.

 **35**

 _Home, sort of-_

Scott Tracy sprang awake with a startled gasp and a full-body shudder. He was… alive. Able to move, see and hear. Terribly weak, though, and completely disoriented. Straightening warily, the pilot saw that he'd been hunched over with his head on his folded arms, which rested (in turn) on a flat, opened book. School text, looked like, though the letters were odd, and he could make no sense at all of those very strange words.

The book rested upon a familiar, battered old desk… the pigeon-holed escritoire that mom had inherited from her prosperous ranching clan. The chair he sat in was a big, dark leather monstrosity on heavy brass casters. Scott remembered it well.

Confused, he looked around at a stack of textbooks and a laptop computer. Past that, to half a glass of milk and a plate of snickerdoodle cookies, with crumpled paper napkin and scattered cinnamon crumbs all around.

Almost hurled himself at the food, gulping fresh milk… gone warm, now, but too thirsty to care… and bolting cookies as fast as he could stuff them into his mouth; hardly pausing to chew and swallow. A little burnt on the bottom, but so good that he almost wanted to cry.

Shaking, Scott swiveled the chair and looked around some more. Saw… no kidding… his old room; not from the ranch, but the farm house in Kansas. Muttered,

"What the h*ll…?" as he took in faded, blue-striped wallpaper, a hardwood floor, bright rag-rugs and a wide-open window, with rumpled plaid curtains swaying in and out with the breeze. His narrow wooden bed was there in the corner, covered by one of Grandma's hand-crocheted blankets. His model airplane and rocket collection was up on the shelves of his bookcase, with dad's "Explorer-1" spaceship right there in front.

John's bed was across the room, its blanket striped black and orange. Team colours, Scott recalled vaguely. _That_ set of shelves held baseball trophies, math books and star-charts in orderly rows. Overhead, a ceiling fan swished and hummed, as outside the window came all the noises you heard on a farm; distant tractor, lowing cows, barking dog, occasional voices, and somebody singing.

Scott took a very deep breath. Ran a hand through his hair. _How…?_ Cautiously, the pilot stood up. Found himself weak, but able to stay on his booted feet. Needed food, though, and more to drink. Much more, and very much stronger. There was a grey tabby puddled on the window seat, he noticed… stupid thing would never leave him alone, Scott remembered suddenly. For some reason, that thought brought him close to tears.

Wasn't sure what the h*ll was going on… where he was _really…_ but seeing an old frenemy made everything easier to take. Maybe that's why he went to the window, reached down and scratched at the cat's small, wedge-shaped head.

"Hey, Fish-breath," he greeted the old tom, who yawned hugely, displaying sharp white teeth, curling tongue and a pink ribbed palate. "How's it going?"

The old cat blinked sleepy green eyes and gave his hand a half-hearted swat, grumpy at being awakened. Made typical cat-noises, then rolled on over and stretched.

"Mrowr, yourself, Flea-bag," Scott responded, this time really hearing his own voice, which sounded…

Turning, he stalked to his chest of drawers, which supported an oval, wood-framed and swiveling mirror. Took a long, hard look.

"Holy sh*t," he breathed, blinking, then rubbing his eyes. Those textbooks should've given it away, Scott supposed. Still came as quite a shock, because there in the mirror stood a tall young man, seventeen at the most. This ghost had dense, dark brown hair, vivid blue eyes and deep dimples scoring his sleeve-creased face. More rangy than muscular, at the moment; dressed in boots, jeans and a faded old work shirt that still dreamt fondly of green.

Bringing a hand up, Scott touched his own face; watched the man… _boy…_ in the mirror do likewise. Almost passed out from shock and thirst, but held it together. Didn't scream, didn't fall down, _did_ need a very stiff drink.

Knew where the bathroom was, though: third door on the right, down a long, wood-floored hallway. Scott stumbled out of his room, got to the head, turned on the sink tap, and drank water from both cupped hands till he nearly burst. Tasted like he remembered; cold, fresh, and sharp with minerals. Well water.

He drank like a man dying of thirst, plunging his mouth into his cupped hands again and again over that gleaming white porcelain sink. Then, Scott washed his face, which felt oddly smooth, as though he hadn't yet had to start shaving. Then looked up again, thinking that… Nope. Still Scott-17, rather than Scott-28, going on corpse. Why was he here? What had happened? And, was there any more food in the place?

Well, the kitchen seemed like the ideal place to scrounge up a meal and think about answers. He tidied the bathroom, first, because that was the family rule: you mess it up, you fix it up. Always. Wiped and dried the sink and countertop. Fixed the curtains (breeze had worked one loose of its fabric loop, again) and straightened Grandma's framed cross-stitch picture. Polished both glass doorknobs, even.

Home… Only, they'd had to leave Kansas (driven off by violence, blight and disease) long before Scott had turned seventeen. He just, y'know, didn't get it.

Felt through his pockets. Found a brown leather wallet containing ID and driver's license, covered in more of those gibberish letters. Right guy in the picture, though, even if he was about a decade too young, and not a holographic projection; just a flat, 2-D image. _Hunh._

Well, if he didn't eat some more, soon, he'd be far beyond gawking at mysteries, Scott decided. Nodding to himself, he left the clean bathroom. Passed Virgil, Gordon and Alan's room, then Grandma's. No sounds from either of them, thank God, so maybe the house was empty, and he'd have a chance to think. Reached the stairs at the end of the hall, and loped on down, swinging around the newel-post where the stairs cornered, halfway along. Same pictures on the walls, plus some new ones.

Stairs led to what Grandma called the "parlor", which had got to be kept spotless, in case of visitors. From there, you could turn into the living room or the family dining room (big fat hairy lie- they nearly always ate at the kitchen table). Behind that, lay the "den" and the kitchen.

Scott picked up his pace, making a beeline for the room with the goods. Down here, the furniture was in better shape, and the rugs store-bought, rather than hooked from torn-up clothes and old blankets. Scott had been nervous that he'd encounter someone in the kitchen… the heart and soul of their house… but the big airy space was quite empty.

Went to the troop-sized white refrigerator, opened its doors and started loading up: lunch meat, leftovers, mayonnaise, mustard, both kinds of cheese, lettuce, tomato, bacon, bread from the counter, and a couple of beers.

Spread it all out on the butcher-block island and then started building a two-hands-required, he-man-gut-buster sandwich. Even had marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, plus half a peach pie, for when he got 'round to dessert.

Was set to wolf it all down, when the back door creaked open, and the screen door slammed, as somebody entered the kitchen from out on the porch. Scott turned around, and got a face full of exuberant dog.

"Rusty!" he blurted, hugging the big Irish setter, whose plumed tail thudded the fridge, and whose grubby paws were pressed to Scott's chest. Dog breath and eager kisses had got to be fended off… except that all he wanted to do was hug the dumb mutt extra-tight. "Rusty, get down!" he said, not really meaning it. Then,

"Boy, that beer better be f'r me, else we'll be havin' us a talk about th' wisdom a' sneakin' alcohol in this house."

The voice was a deep, bass rumble. Reminded Scott briefly of the Mechanic, with more warmth and less sly, vicious humour. He looked around to see a very tall, muscular man. Silver-haired, but somehow not "old".

"Granddad?" Scott whispered, almost dropping his masterpiece sandwich.

"All day long," quipped Grant Tracy. "Least, have been since I shaved his face, this mornin'. Now, fix me a sandwich, hand over them beers, and we won't say nuthin' t' y'r grandma."

"Yessir," said Scott, just about managing to safely put down his food and dodge Rusty. Then, he threw himself at the big older man. _"Granddad!"_

Closed his eyes, held tight and just breathed; smelling horse, truck, cigar smoke, outdoors and that cheap Pine-Woods cologne the elder Tracy had always favoured. Grant patted his back with a big, rough hand, and said,

"Alright, young 'un… what y' been up to besides sneakin' beer? This feels like a stage-12 _"I'm sorry"_ hug, t' me. Wrecked y'r dad's car, or sumthin'?"

"Huh?" Scott pulled away enough to look up at his grandfather's suddenly narrowed blue eyes. "I… no, Sir. I haven't done anything wrong. Promise. I just… I'm really glad to see you, is all. What, um… what d' you want on your sandwich, Sir?"

"All of it," his grandfather grinned, reaching over to muss Scott's hair with a big, careless hand. "Anythin' you c'n pile between two slices a' bread."

Scott laughed. Managed to turn loose and step back, only to find that Rusty had made off with half of their lunch meat. _Stupid_ (God, I'm glad to see you) _dog._

Granddad was washing up at the sink by then, humming an off-key tune. He knew three by heart, and wrecked every d*mn one of them. A few minutes later, as Scott was ready to serve, somebody else showed up.

Crunching gravel, squeaking springs and a cheery _'beep-beep'_ signaled a drop-off. Scott heard a coughing, growling engine head away down the lane, as the back door slammed open and shut, again; this time, admitting John.

His long-haired brother was slimmer than Scott remembered. About fifteen years old, and wearing his baseball uniform, gear bag slung over one shoulder. In socks and slides, because no dirty cleats in the house.

"Hey, Granddad. Hey, Scott," he said, stopping to fuss with the dog.

"Afternoon, Son. Upstairs, and wash them clothes, afore y'r grandma has a fit."

"Yessir," the red-head answered, stealing a piece of ham from Scott's pile. Shared it with Rusty, who factually did _not_ need any more food. "Right away."

Scott started to hinder his red-clay-and-grass-stained brother from leaving, only… Why? What could he ask, that wouldn't sound completely deranged? Then, y'know… Then mom strolled into the room, humming something she'd made up, herself.


	36. Chapter 36

A short one. Thanks, Tikatu, Susan and RV Fan, for reviewing. You are valued. Edited more. Many Thanks for the heads-up, Tikatu! You rock! :)

 **36**

 _Far away and a-when, in murky and turbulent waters-_

It was one thing to harpoon those vast, snapping jaws; another matter entirely, to survive the wild ride that followed. The barbed metal shaft struck home and bit deep, sending a cloud of dark fluid curling like smoke through the water. Then, jaws as long as Thunderbird 4 clashed shut on the harpoon's braided, steel-alloy line. The creature took hold of the cable, giving Gordon a brief glimpse of ridged scales, tiny eyes and a long row of jagged, interlocked teeth.

Then, that nightmare shook its head, flexed somehow, and started to spin in mid-water. Thunderbird 4 was still attached by her tow line; was soon reeled in close by the monster's wild twist. They were hauled in like a trout, while debris rained all around from above. Thumped hard against the creature's mottled head, making the sub shudder and boom. One of 4's floodlights cracked and went dark, shorted out by cold, salty water. Sudden voltage might've jolted the massive reptile, which took off at once for the depths, dragging Thunderbird 4 like a toy. Sensing the added weight, that monster croc kept trying to turn its head and snap at the trailing sub. Only, the line was too short.

They got struck and battered repeatedly; sending loud, crashing _**THUNK**_ _s_ through the hull, along with the grinding squeal of hard scales against metal; the sizzle and crack of an overstressed force-shield. Charlie had grown wildly, ascending from three years old, to something like nine or ten. Hard to tell, and harder to hold onto, as they slalomed and spun amid crumbling buildings and turbulent water.

Gordon Tracy wasn't the Colonel's son for nothing, though. Reached across and flipped several switches at once, as Charlie reflexively hammered at time. Managed to break free of that Goddam cable, then fired the Yellow Bird's plasma cutter.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _In a battered and tumbling sweeper, high overhead-_

First, he'd gotten a sudden stab of worry; thinking, _'Scott…?'_ Then, no: he hadn't been feverish, deluded or seeing things. Thunderbird 4 was here, having somehow slipped through that gushing hole in the sea. There lay surprise one and two. The next took the form of green, flaring energy, shooting out through the comm and straight into John.

For a moment, all went silent and dark. Then, he sensed immense age, exhaustion and loneliness, together with crushing guilt for crimes that a human could not even grasp. Weird enough, but, after all that he just… got repaired; made whole and well on the instant. Suit laundered and exopod topped up with charge, even.

 _'Allow an intrusion, Carbon-base,'_ said the sudden presence, in John's own thinking-voice. _'The missing explorers have risked their existence in a futile attempt to seek out and assist you. They are well-meaning, but unwise.'_

Yeah… that'd be buddy and Ellie, alright. On the bright side, the pollution sweeper was all at once upright and humming. John, not so much.

"Um… can you not be in my head?" he demanded tensely. The sensation was crowded and deeply unsettling; worse than one of Penny's social events. Took all that he had, just to stay in control of his own d*mn body.

 _'I shall be brief, Carbon Space-farer,'_ said his visitor, from somewhere off to his mind's left side. _'Housed in your shell, I may traverse the portal, and seal it. In the meantime, others search for you and your spectrum's Scott, as well as the pair that were sent to this place.'_

Scott? Missing? He'd definitely felt something, earlier, but hadn't had time to think what. Now, though, with corroboration and added power...

"Okay," John decided. "I'll let Eos know what's going on. She can…"

 _'The entity you speak of has dispersed, Carbon Space-farer. It risked passage through the portal, and lost cohesion.'_

As water continued to thunder down through that hole… as drones were crushed by falling debris all around them... John shook his head.

"No. You're wrong, but I'm not going to argue." Gave the spruced-up sweeper a totally needless diagnostic before adding, in a savage mutter, "We'll go get the Pendergasts, and find a way to reach Gordon. There's a large marine reptile down there. He may need backup. Then, I'll help you close the portal, if you'll help me find Eos. Otherwise, no sale. You're on your own." She was okay, and so was Scott. They had to be.

Of course, that alien being… Rigby's "guest" … could have forced him to do whatever the h*ll it wanted him to. Except that those many long eons had tempered its urge for conquest.

 _'Proposal accepted, Space-farer. Now, make a signal to the recording device of the exploring life-mates, and we shall travel to their location.'_

"Done," John snapped, touching his wrist-comm. To h*ll with concealment and safety. Scott, Gordon, Buddy and Ellie… Eos… needed a hand.

Yeah, so… ever get zapped to bits of data, then mailed through a comm signal? Disappear from the bridge of a clunky pollution sweeper, only to rematerialise almost that same instant, on a crumbling ledge above dark, surging water? No? Well, John had. Slipped a bit on arrival, wind-milled wildly, and then had his arms seized by two worried, ashen-faced Pendergasts.

"Bluey!" shouted one, and "Johnnie!" laughed the other, coughing spots of blood. "Jumped f'r it, eh, Mate?"

Something like that. As they drew him to sort-of safety inside that creaking and shuddering building, John fished the meds from a water-proof suit pocket.

"Here," he told them. "Found something that ought to help." Absolutely would, if that weird, greenish sparkle was anything to go by. "Have to inject, though."

Buddy chuckled and mopped at his brow with a sodden red cap, saying,

"Reminds me o' how I lost me leg. Right, El?"

Though fading fast, his wife nudged the man that she loved, and gave him a fond little smile.

"Which time, Buddy?" his partner joked. "You 'aven't told it th' same way twice since I've known you, Chookie."

John saw to her, first; using his exopod's low-beam for light, pushing her filthy sleeve up, swabbing the skin above a good vein, and then plunging the needle right in. Okay, he wasn't Gordon, but did a pretty good job, anyhow.

Next, after lowering Ellie to a seat on some nearby piled rubble, John turned to Buddy. Started to draw a second dose after giving their needle a hasty alcohol wash. Only, Pendergast stopped him.

"Wait, Bluey," said the older man, placing a cold, shaky hand on John's arm. "Enough there f'r you, too, in't there?"

"Yes," John told him. "There is. Now, shut up and take your medicine."

Buddy peered into his face; at once worried and laughing.

"Right-o. You'd say that whether or not it were strewth, Bluey… but th' missus is all that matters. She's th' brains an' heart. Always 'as been. Take care o' 'er, an' y'rself, Mate."

John kept him distracted and talking. Not hard to accomplish, given Buddy's growing disorientation. They hadn't left. Had not fled to safety. Had instead been about to enact some dumbass, crazed stunt to find and help _him._ Right.

Outside of his family, Jaeger, Eos and Brains, John didn't have many friends. But, that number had just grown by two, and d*mned if he'd lose them, now.


	37. Chapter 37

Hey, you guys. :) Sorry about the mess with chapter 36. Was trying to fix a problem that Tikatu pointed out, and ended up making things worse. Got it solved, eventually, but had to delete and repost the chapter to do it. This time, for sure, chapter 37! Thanks, Bow Echo, Susan and Tikatu, for your kind and helpful reviews.

 **37**

 _A bit earlier, in Thunderbird Prototype, nearing Pacifica City-_

The family rule was: the mission came first, no matter what was going on, elsewhere. That Scott was in serious trouble, possibly injured, Virgil knew. Couldn't divert from his goal to try and help out, though. Not without dooming eight-hundred people, plus Penny, Parker, and maybe John. Worried or not, heartsick or not, he had to press on.

Needing to be useful, stay busy, he went down to the Prototype's cavernous maintenance bay, meaning to check out that diving bell. The Mini-Maxes did good work; Virgil knew that. But going aft gave him something to do besides not fly the plane. Ship. Submarine. _Whatever._

Wished the hull and struts didn't flex and contract so much; groaning like they'd been beat up and robbed. Wished that he and Brains had ever gotten the chance to finish the Bird, which had jack-crap in the way of amenities. Only thing was, Lee had kept the Prototype hopping, with all of those trips back and forth to the Moon. There simply hadn't been time.

Stalking through the barren passageway, now, Virgil imagined what he'd fix up, and just how he'd go about doing it. Saw paint, bulkhead braces and cargo-webbing, decent bathroom facilities and a genuine crew cabin. Maybe even a med station.

Two or three Maxes zipped around the young man as he strode along, thinking. These sometimes lit on his head or broad shoulders before taking off, once again. Didn't bug Virgil, who'd always liked machines.

Down in that vast and echoing maintenance bay, he found the big, roughly spherical diving bell, along with what looked like a mile of reinforced cable. Checked out the airlock-attach setting, saw that it matched what he'd seen of Pacifica's outer hatches. A massive, clawed thing, composed of Brains' nano-structure material, it could change shape on command… if, y'know, you could program alterations on the fly. Not his specialty, but what a guy didn't know, he could learn, Virgil figured. Seriously, how hard could it be?

Took a tour of inspection, looking for anything at all that might fail in the clutch. Important, because it was hardly ever the big stuff that got you. Usually just some dumb, nit-noy screw, or bent fan blade. One of the Maxes had laser-printed ' **IR'** on the bell's sides and airlock clamps, he noticed.

Smiling, Virgil pulled up a virtual screen and began a deep diagnostic, still looking for trouble. Then, he picked up the laser inscription tool, and stood there a moment, thinking. Each of his brothers had an old Looney Toons character stamped on his Bird. Yosemite Sam for Scott, Marvin the Martian for John, Pepe Le Pew for Gordon, and Tweety Bird (though he hated it) for Al. Virgil's, of course, was the Tasmanian Devil. Kayo, he'd stuck with Bugs Bunny in wig and makeup. But Lee? What would best suit Captain Taylor?

After a second or two, he got a sly notion, and set right to work, using different angles and depths of burn to create the right colours. Finished up just as the comm crackled to life and Lee announced,

"We're in position, Vic. Get 'er warmed up whilst I transfer control t' Mike, over here. Be along in a bit."

"Yessir," Virgil assented, nodding at the nearest bulkhead cam. "Will do."

Then, having had his fun, the big, dark-haired pilot started collecting supplies for their trip. Med-gear, blankets and water. You know… the usual. Tried to visualize triage and pickup, but the best of plans got changed in mid-rescue, every d*mn time. Generally (unlike, say, Scott or John) he made things up as he went along. Besides, there were GDF subs coming. The Prototype wouldn't have to evacuate _everyone_. Right?

Captain Taylor arrived about five minutes later, wearing one environment suit and toting another. Handed the second to Virgil, saw that laser-printed emblem, and did a fast double-take. Stood there in blue IR pressure suit, helmet under one arm, smoothing his moustache with a free hand. Then, shook his head, gave Virgil a lone sidelong glance, and kept moving. Muttered something that sounded like, _"Goddam cartoon chicken on a rescue ship",_ as he climbed on inside. Otherwise, the rugged, space-tanned astronaut had no objection to Foghorn Leghorn adorning his ride.

A team of Maxes united to make them a staircase. A nice touch, since the Prototype didn't have any boarding ramps. Once the pilots were strapped in and settled, the maintenance bay's loading crane lifted the bell, taking it down to vehicle-airlock 3, the one rated for high-pressure environments.

Suited up and ready to go, Virgil sat in the stripped-down cockpit, which was downright luxurious, compared to the rest of the prototype sea lift. There were seats, life support systems and plenty of grab-hold webbing, but not much else. Even the instrument panel was basic; including little more than a joy stick, throttle, buoyancy controls and monitor screen.

Three very brave Maxes would ride along on the cable and hull, ready to deal with fouled lines or drifting impactors. Virgil's pulse quickened as the bell _**THUNKed**_ into place, and water roared through the giant vents. He could hear it come thundering in. Heard the stuff whooshing high up the sides of their life raft, squeezing tight as it gurgled and climbed. Sensing his tension, Lee winked at the younger man.

"This ain't nuthin', Vic. H*ll, I've pissed more water n' this. A man c'n only do whut's put before him, Son. Ain't no use dwellin' on might-be."

Virgil nodded.

"Yessir," he responded stoutly, not jumping out of his skin when the outer hatch ground open; the noise like an avalanche through all of that freezing-cold water. Unlike John and Scott, he'd had no other job before this one. Unlike Gordon, he'd not done much competitive traveling. A little football, was all. Maybe he didn't have as much perspective to draw on, because of those things… but Lee's colorful monologue helped him stay focused.

"You handle throttle, Vic. I'll work th' steerin' jets," Taylor commanded, as the clamps very loudly retracted, and their fragile bell slipped from its womb like a whale-calf. Didn't head to the surface for air, though. Started down.

"Let's shed a little light on th' subject," remarked Lee, cutting on the bell's warm golden floodlights. Pacifica City crouched red and sullen beneath them, supported by a wavering forest of bright-orange floats. Looked like the buoyancy bubbles on kelp, Virgil thought.

"Got us a fairly intense current goin' on down here," Taylor grunted, fighting to keep their craft aligned with the city's emergency access hatch. Thunderbird 4 could've come in from below. Descending like a spider on hundreds of feet of strong cable, the diving bell could not.

The trench was visible, too; ugly and deep as a knife-wound, just beyond Pacifica City. Also visible was a shifting and spinning hole of some sort, edged in blistering light. Had to be swallowing water by the fricking metric ton, Virgil figured.

"Think that's what happened to Gordon?" the pilot asked, tearing his eyes away from that portal, with a nearly audible rip.

"Could be," Taylor responded, giving the bell's steering motor everything she had in the way of power. "Won't know till he calls in an' says so."

"What if the other side isn't _here?_ On Earth, I mean. How will we get them… _him_ back?"

Taylor shrugged.

"We'll figger sumthin' out. We allus do. An' I ain't countin' Godfrey out jus' yet, anymore 'n I would Spencer, Jason or _you._ If'n he's out Proxima way, he'll come back with one h*lluva story ta tell. How much futher, Vic?"

Virgil glanced at the distance-to-target screen, then said,

"Twenty-three feet, Sir. Opening the airlock grapples… _now._ Watch your drift."

"Tryin'… that d*mn winder keeps shiftin' position. Current's all over th' place. Hard ta… stay… _aligned._ Dammit! Back up, Vic. We're gonna hafta try again."

Instead of connecting with that waiting hatch, their bell swung wildly, spun by a sudden shift in the current. She brushed against Pacifica City's weakening force shield, raising a long, arcing rooster-tail of glittering motes. Sounded like shrill and wavering static.

Virgil triggered cable retract, torn between prayer and cussing. As he reeled them back up for another try, Taylor said,

"Vic, I got an idear. Feel like takin' a risk?"


	38. Chapter 38

Allo! Posting early, because I've got to get the fluids flushed in my Jeep, then start packing. Thank you for reviewing, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Susan, Creative Girl and Thunderbird Shadow. Replies forthcoming! =) Edited!

 **38**

 _Island Base, and everywhere else, in the meantime-_

Was there much going on back home? Absolutely. Grandma Tracy had been left minding the chaotic "store", and that meant serving as information and comm relay, as well as keeping a concerned GDF in the loop, every ten minutes. Necessary, since Captain Rigby was off on a mission, instead of manning his post as liaison.

With Alan skirting Manitoba, Kayo in Japan, Virgil and Lee hooking up to Pacifica City, plus Gordon, Scott and John Matthew, God knows _where,_ Sal was a busy woman.

As for the rest, Professor Moffat had suffered a sudden fainting spell, brought on by stress, pregnancy hormones and total exhaustion. Brains could have sent her upstairs with Max, but chose to take care of his wife personally, leaving young Caleb Gonzalez alone with the prototype transporter. He didn't realize what could happen, of course. _How could he have known?_

Out in the ring, Janice Ming and Josh Kelly were each remote-flying a Thunderbird. Fairly simple for Josh, who had only to maintain a figure-of-eight holding pattern in Thunderbird 2, while fielding occasional messages and waiting for rescued victims.

Jan was busier; flying the silver rocket plane from one hot-spot to the next, on the shattered outskirts of far-off Kyoto. Beside her sat Cody Beech, her lieutenant and… well, her boyfriend. The pale-haired, wolf-eyed young man was a powerful chaos adept, and now he was pouring all of that might into Jan's first mission; very much boosting her piloting skills and her luck.

See, a hundred-thousand things could've gone wrong that day, and they _did…_ for the GDF. Trouble and chaos had to go somewhere. Being a Special, himself, Cody had no love at all for the human World Government. So, that's where he shunted all the misfortune and entropy that would have bedeviled Jan.

Chancellor Shaw, Colonel Casey, that much-delayed submarine rescue fleet… all experienced troubles ranging from blue-screened computers and savage muscle cramps, to foul weather and unexplained engine problems. That any one of those subs made it out of port was a certified miracle; one that Beech would have to explain, later. Cody might not have been the strongest of his subtly powerful breed, but he stirred up plenty of trouble.

Zara Herringford-Smith, meanwhile, occupied a slightly awkward spot between guest and employee. Having been rescued by Colonel Jeff Tracy, then given a job on the Island, yet not really part of the "team", the pretty blonde girl kept to the edges of things; flirting with Gordon, caring for Charlie, helping to cook. Now, she was torn between maintaining the pretense that wee Charles was actually _home,_ and assisting Brains with Moffy. Both situations were vital, but her heart went out to the Doctor's pregnant and faltering wife.

Max was occupied everywhere, with part of his robotic consciousness there on the Island, attending the Doctor, and the rest parceled out to Thunderbird 3 and the Prototype. Few realized quite how spread out and busy that tough little robot actually was.

Over in Japan, Dr. Reeves had been evacuated from the Yamato Tower space port and taken to the nearest medical facility. Thanks to Havok's sadistic bomb, he'd been totally blinded and deafened. Was soon awake, though, and calling for stylus and notepad. Before long, the inventor had arranged a haptic signaling system with his nurses, whereby he could find out just what had happened and how he could fix it.

Further north, Havok and fuse were out of commission. Not dead, but not happy, _or_ rich. The illegally-implanted pair faced a very long trek over shifting pack ice, before they'd encounter anyone they might terrorize, bully or steal from. Having triggered this nightmare, the Chaos Crew were temporarily out of the game.

Elsewhere, the Mechanic had intended to retreat for awhile to Pancake Rocks, and there begin building his stronghold. Only, life rarely followed anyone's script, including Kane's. Far from remaining aloof, the muscular cyborg would shortly be drawn into battle, again. On which side, remained to be seen.

Then, there was the Hood; still in prison, and preferring to remain that way, while his enemies vanquished each other. But then, Vikran Kyrano had always played the long game, for very high stakes. His brothers Zoltan and Kevar were already dead and disposed of. That arrogant cur, Nikorr, would soon follow them into oblivion, leaving Vikran free to shatter the Tracys, forever.

Perhaps eclipsing the Hood in schemes and machinations was the World Council's Chancellor Shaw. By this very delicate balancing point, Shaw had every chess piece placed where he wanted it. But, it's when we're most confident, that the hammer-blow falls, every time.

And so, to Jeff Tracy; patriarch, hero and leader. Concerned father, too. For the first time starting to wonder whether his dream was worth losing a son over. Three misplaced boys, a disastrously malfunctioning transporter and a new, mysterious foe had combined to shake that legendary confidence. The colonel _had_ felt Scott's last choked-off call. But there wasn't a d*mn thing he could do about it, except provide support from Thunderbird 5.

Through the station's high-tech instruments, Jeff monitored Alan's situation, and Kayo's. Kept less of an eye on Virgil, figuring that Lee had a pretty good handle on that one.

"Be careful, Princess," he'd advised Tanusha. "I'm scanning hundreds of major lifeforms and loads of energy, but only one actual human. Something feels off about that place. Keep a clear line of retreat."

"Understood, Thunderbird 5," his daughter responded; evidently in mid-leap and roll. No body cam, because the device had mysteriously broken down. Again. "I've got this. Whatever's in there's no match for a Tracy."

…with a hopefully loyal Marine Corps assistant. She was panting slightly, but sounded confident. A little emotional. Was he ready for a GDF son-in-law, Jeff wondered? Didn't matter, he supposed. Tanusha had become a smart, beautiful, fierce young woman. Her choices were hers to make, not his to control. Not anymore… and he'd never felt quite so helpless. Utterly isolated and out of touch, high above his embattled family.

Down in Japan, Kayo dropped from Shadow's wing to that slanted, red-tiled roof; landing with a very slight thump, and then rolling to minimize her silhouette. At least twice (that Kay would admit to) she'd been killed in sim by a prowling sniper. Now, she kept a low profile, cutting short their conversation. Couldn't afford to lose focus in enemy territory.

The odd, silent birds did not take fright or fly away; merely fluttered off a few feet and then settled again, making no sound but the sibilant rustle of wings. Weird. Her helmet was off, because Kayo needed to feel the wind. Taste the air currents. Hear the muted rumble of her cloaked Bird, borne on that cool, gusting breeze.

"I'm going in," she murmured over the comm. "Wait five minutes, then follow."

Clicked it back off, before Wayne could respond. Clear head, and all that. The red clay tiles were slippery underfoot, containing no metal for her boot soles to latch to. Less guano than she would have expected, though. In fact…

Kayo's thoughts were interrupted, suddenly. Just as she was rising from half-crouch to ready stance, one of those black-and-gold speckled birds darted into the air, swooped low and pecked at her head, snatching a few long hairs from her ponytail.

"Hey!" she objected, swatting at the agile, feathered thief. _"Stop_ that!"

But the swift-darting bird simply dodged her grab and streaked off; splitting the air with a wild _'kee-kee-kee'_ shriek. Then the other birds began leaving; rising from the roof like a cloud of fluid, dark smoke. The column shot upward, twisting and spinning like an animate cyclone. It swirled and shrieked awhile, before finally coming to roost in the gnarled old pine trees surrounding the fortress; surveying her now from a distance.

Kay's heart was pounding. Almost, she'd lost her balance and fallen; barely converting the plunge to a backward somersault that caught the roof's edge and flipped her down to the balcony, below. Here, too, she landed low and rolling, then sprang up ready to fight. Only, Nijo Castle was empty. Room after elegant room housed only a few graceful artefacts. A jade vase here, an ancient scroll there. A suit of black-and-gold armour, with two slim swords on a wooden stand. All very pretty, and puzzling. The floors were dark wood, creaking subtly at each step. The interior walls were made of paper, arranged to slide open at the merest, whisper-soft touch.

Tanusha ran lightly, watching for cameras or robot guards. She could sense other minds, but they felt strange to her. More of a low background hum, than the open thoughts of her family. Always, she reached for Scott's mind, trying to generate another sign of her oldest brother's presence.

Picked up _something…_ but Wayne's concern and affection came close to drowning that weak drift of consciousness out. The big Marine was taking the leap from Thunderbird Shadow, she sensed, before dragging her mind back to _here,_ and right _now._

The castle had many levels, but no apparent inhabitants. Kayo couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched, though. That somewhere, just out of sight, unseen crowds whispered and mocked at her stealth. Suspicious and angry, she lashed out with: _Don't look this way. Nobody here,_ as if she'd been stalking a "client" through crowded streets.

Sensed her watchers' alarm at losing their show, and smiled grimly. Might not have been wise to bait them like that, but she'd always preferred a good fight, to sneaking around. Sensed, rather than saw, the release of a swarm of drones.

Well, Kay had the means to deal with _those,_ as well. Her green uniform was equipped with image-fuzzing technology, thanks to Brains. The Mechanic had proven impervious to her tricks, but no simple drone or wall-cam could possibly…

That's when a spring-loaded trapdoor opened beneath her, and Kayo plunged into darkness.


	39. Chapter 39

Many thanks, with accompanying bow and flourish, to Creative Girl, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Akimakel and Thunderbird Shadow. Surprised myself, and got it all done, today! =)

 **39**

 _In dark, swirling water, on the far side of the world-_

Back in the long-ago day, he'd heard, men had gone out in small boats to harpoon and slaughter great whales. Often, they'd been dragged for many miles by the skewered and suffering beasts. Sometimes, the boats had been battered to pieces, all hands aboard them, drowned.

Well, this was no Nantucket Sleighride, and that monster croc was no whale. Nor would Thunderbird 4 go down like an open wood boat on the ocean. For one thing, she was far better armed and constructed.

That plasma cutter could slice through reinforced steel like soft cheese. It glowed like a blue-white star; first boiling, then ionizing the fluid around its powerful business end. Gordon Tracy had every reason in the world to survive, and he wasn't playing.

With the harpoon deeply lodged in the creature's throat, Gordon picked his moment and released its line, sending Thunderbird 4 slewing off through that murky, debris-laden water. Narrowly missed a rusted, up-ended bus and a crashing steel girder. Did not miss three-fourths of a crumbling train car, which disintegrated on shrill, grinding contact.

Chip had the physical size of a twelve-year-old boy, by this time, but still kept the mind of a very smart preschooler. At Gordon's urging, he got himself off to the other seat and strapped back down, just as that monster reptile swung around for another pass.

Flexing its muscular tail, the giant marine crocodile opened massive jaws, swinging its head to reorient. Could sense the song of water on metal, just as… through the touch pads on his steering controls… Gordon could 'taste' and feel what the Yellow Bird glided through.

He could see the cutter's brilliant blue glow reflected in the reptile's eyeshine, as that great, mottled head swung around. The plasma glare, or maybe the lightning-like discharge it fired, seemed to give the monster pause.

Again, and again, it darted up and off; slipping between sunken buildings, trying to come at the sub from a different angle. Only, Gordon was faster. No one could handle Thunderbird 4 like the young man she'd been built around.

Now, more than ever before, he sank himself into her systems; less steering that sub than wearing it like a second skin. There in the roiling, mostly dark seawater, gritty with filth and fanged by the stumps of shattered skyscrapers, holding a sun-fire light in one mechanical claw, Gordon fought for his own life, and Charlie's.

Sensors were back online, again. And, while Chip couldn't give coordinates very well, he could sure as h*ll point.

"Over there, Dad!" he'd call out. "Really fast an' tryna be sneaky!"

On the third pass, the crocodile swept through the broken arch of an old bridge; its pale, armoured belly dislodging a storm of decaying vehicles. Playing his steering jets like a master, Gordon shot over and down. Almost got out of the way, but sideswiped the croc with earthquake force. Muttered,

"That's gonna leave a mark," as the creature's head whipped around at them. Its small eyes were closed, this time, sharpening a host of other, more delicate senses. Another touch to the steering jets sent Thunderbird 4 tumbling slightly away. Just far enough that he could use the plasma cutter to slice off three claws and half a front foot.

Immediately, the beast writhed and snapped like a hooked shark, slamming its head right at the sub. They collided once more with a booming, resounding **CRASH**. The plasma cutter sliced even deeper; this time gashing that dark, armoured hide. No blood from an instantly cauterized wound, but the reptile had finally had enough.

With a powerful lash of its tail, the giant croc vanished, leaving Thunderbird 4 beat to h*ll, but still there. Still in one functional piece. Gordon didn't believe it, at first. Sat there, hunched forward, gripping tight to his steering controls and panting hoarsely. Waiting.

Ten seconds passed… twenty… and still nothing. Then a whole minute, with only turbulent muck and slow-spinning, bubble-tracked wreckage dropping their way. Safe, maybe? Beside him, Charlie was making this thin little part-stifled whimper. Doing his best not to cry.

As the water no longer reeked of burnt crocodile, Gordon cut off the crackling plasma torch, and asked,

"You scared, Kiddo?"

Charlie shook his head violently, lower lip trembling.

"No, Dad," he lied.

"Oh," remarked the sandy-blond aquanaut, releasing one steering rod to reach across and ruffle his boy's pale brown hair. "'Cause _I_ was, a little. Have to be an idiot or a tree stump, not to be."

Charlie sniffled, then giggled at his (braver-than-anyone) father.

"A whole tree would get scared, though?" he wondered aloud, brown eyes shining with love and something like hero-worship. Gordon nodded, taking the question quite seriously.

"If he valued his roots and leaves, then… yeah, Chipper. He sure as h… _heck_ would be. Nothing wrong with that. It's keeping on, anyhow, that makes you a man. Or a tree."

Charlie dashed at his eyes with a hand that was already shrinking back down, again. Turning younger.

"Maybe I was _sorta_ , little bit scared, Dad… but I did my best anyways. Just like you. Right?"

The aquanaut smiled at his son. How had he gotten along, before, Gordon wondered? Back when there'd been nothing to focus on but himself, performing flash rescues, and getting laid? All of that felt weirdly distant, now. Like adopting Charlie had turned him into a totally different guy.

"Right, Kiddo," he said. "You did good, and I'm super proud of you. Now, let's find someplace less busy to surface, and find out where we are. Sit tight, Buddy. I need you on sensors, again. You spot something, you sing out. Teamwork, okay?"

Charlie nodded back at him.

"Okay, Dad," he responded. "Teamwork hunerd percent. I won't even, not even _blink_ of watching so much!"

The swimmer gave his Sea Bird the lightest of nudges, trying to conserve what fuel they had left. Laughed at his son despite it all, saying,

"You've gotta blink sometime, Chip. If not, your eyes 'll fall out."

The brown eyes in question grew very much wider, then.

"Really?" the boy whispered, blinking about fifty times in rapid succession.

"That's what your Uncle Lee told me," admitted Gordon, as he threaded his way through a tangle of rusted and jagged wreckage. "Back when I was your age… 'Course, he might've been pulling my leg."

"Unca Lee pulls your leg?" Charlie repeated uncertainly.

"Figure of speech, Bud," said the aquanaut, steering them past collapsed bridges, choked roadways and desolate, sunken buildings. "Means he was only…"

It was right then that his wrist comm pinged, on just about the most welcome frequency that Gordon Tracy could have been hit with. Because, sometimes, the Universe listens.


	40. Chapter 40

Thanks, you guys, for reading and reviewing. Going to be busy for a couple of days, but will respond as quickly as possible. Promise. In the meantime, Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Susan, Akimakel, Thunderbird Shadow and Whirl Girl (x7), thank you for all your encouragement. It means a lot to me. Next one from Japan! =)

 **40**

 _Not far away, as the sky falls-_

John didn't need those detox meds, anymore. His 'guest' had seen to all that. So, after dosing Buddy, he tucked the bottle and capped hypodermic away in a "bag of holding" suit pocket. Thinking, y'know, that somebody else might get sick. Not Gordon, who'd be safe from that mutated pathogen, as long as he stayed in his Bird. Bystanders, if there were any.

Anyhow, John accepted the laser cufflink back from Buddy with a grunted, "Thanks". Both explorers were woozy; both very much needed rest. Only, there just wasn't time.

Their temporary shelter was coming apart all around them, unable to handle the twin strains of rising water and massive air-pressure change. Outside, that hole in the sky continued to vomit a titanic column of seawater. They could hear and feel its deep, non-stop roar. Time to be anywhere other than _here_. Stepping forward, John jerked his head at a rust-spotted fire door and said,

"We need to get out, _now._ I've got a friend who can restore equipment, if we can find some kind of…"

So, yeah, there was no glass in those big, scenic windows, beyond a few dagger-like shards. Nothing to block the lashing, snapping vine that struck like a cobra, aiming for animate hot spots. Ellie was right in its path, until Buddy and John shoved her clear. But the big, saw-toothed pod-thing was not balked for long. It whipped around and tore Buddy's rucksack right off his back, shredding the strap and… yeah, John's upraised left arm, past the elbow. Twisted and wrenched it right off.

Didn't feel pain, at first. Did want to throw up. Had f*ck-all for weapons, now. Just a d*mn office chair, which he swept from the ground, and threw. Aim was off, but whatever. (Never could pitch well, right-handed.) Hit it, anyhow; straight in that venom-stained maw, where part of his arm was still dangling, fingers twitching spasmodically. That… okay… made him mad.

Fear, pain and shock work differently, depending on person and circumstance. John's response was to curse like Pete, and fight harder. He might go down, but he'd do it swinging, taking the other guy right the h*ll with him. Heard,

"Bluey, _no!"_ as he launched himself forward, straight at their creeping attacker. No choice. Their only weapon was still attached to his bloodied left sleeve, and John meant to wrench it back.

His lost arm dropped to the floor, as the savage plant dealt with that tough plastic chair. John wanted to scoop the limb up, field it like a grounder, only he was off balance and skidding on glass. So, he kicked it to Buddy instead, shouting,

"Laser!"

Was losing a crap-ton of blood, until a sudden green energy-flare seemed to bandage the ragged end of his bitten arm. Still left him out in the open, trying to cover the scrambling Pendergasts with nothing remaining to throw. Spotted a wicked-long sliver of glass on a broken desk. Better than nothing. Dodging another vine-lash, John seized the glass, sword-wise.

With language that would have burnt holes through solar flare heat-shielding, the astronaut slashed at that needle-fanged pod. Chopped most of its lower jaw loose, but more of the bastards were snaking in, now; some through the windows, some up the stairway. Far too many to deal with. He might have lost that fight, had Buddy not shouted,

"Down, Bluey!"

Made him sound like somebody's dog, but John listened, and dropped like a rock, thumping hard on that trash-and-blood-littered floor. One half-heartbeat later, the laser beam sizzled past in an arc, slicing right through a writhing tangle of beast-plants.

John managed to roll, keeping hold of that jagged sliver (and cutting himself pretty badly). Those severed pods were still dangerous, see; still snapping their jaws at warm-blooded targets.

Someone… Ellie… dashed in like a shrieking madwoman, seized John with an under-arm rescue grab, and started to drag him away. He helped with both legs; kicking at pods and shoving himself hurriedly backward, using the glass shard to stab those hungrily-lashing vines.

The laser stayed busy, slicing up acid-plant salad. Only, the things had now gotten in through the back, too; were growing in faster than Buddy could put them away. That's when Survivor said, clear as a chime in his head,

 _'Emit a new signal.'_

Right.

"Sure. Love to," John grunted. "One arm, remember?" He did have his wrist comm. Just couldn't press it… alone.

"Ellie, hit the watch face, _now!"_ he snapped, hoping that his ride-along guest meant to do something drastic.

The very brave woman didn't ask questions, just stopped dragging his sorry ass, to reach across and slap at John's wrist comm. A signal flared outward, and then they all…

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _The diving bell, just over Pacifica City-_

"What'd you have in mind, Sir?" grunted Virgil, keeping his eyes on the distance-to-target scope. That savage current continued to smack them around like a cat-toy, making hook-up all but impossible. Their descent cable thrummed and moaned like a badly-played cello, setting the entire bell to vibrating.

Said Taylor, cussing under his breath as he forced miracles out of that weak little engine,

"Gotta bring New-B down close enough ta mate shields with th' city. Think we c'n do it without crushin' th' bell, but we'll hafta work quick, and set 'er shieldin' ta max. Oughta give us pertection enough ta link with that hatch. Be a mite risky, though. Not gonna lie t' ya."

The big, dark-haired pilot chuckled and shrugged.

"I didn't take this job for the awesome retirement benefits, Sir. Let's do it."

Lee nodded approvingly. Maybe he wasn't them boys' physical daddy… but he'd had a big hand in raising 'em, and that tended to show up, times like these. Calling upstairs, he said,

"Mike, we got us another plan. Hang onta y'r chips, 'cause it's gonna take big, shiny, cast-iron circuits. What I want ya ta do is haul in th' line, drop down real close, an' then mate shields with th' city. If we ain't crushed flat, we'll hook right up."

Simple, right? And that was only Plan C.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Japan, in the tumbling, chaotic meantime-_

Kayo plummeted ten, maybe twelve feet. Didn't land very hard, because she'd been taught how to tuck, bend her knees, and roll through all that unwanted momentum. Cursed herself for failing to notice a basic trap, then shook her head. Later, in sim, she'd run all this backward, forward and sideways. For now, it was time to return to the business of finding Scott, and not getting killed.

Fetching up at a wall with a soft, grunted, _"Oof!"_ Kay rose to a hard-breathing, pounce-ready crouch. The trapdoor had swung shut overhead, plunging her into musty semi-gloom. Smelt like a toolshed, but felt roomier than that; large and shadowed, rather than crowded with junk. Floor appeared to be concrete or stone. Didn't mean it was safe to walk across, though.

Taking a few deep breaths, Tanusha calmed herself, then turned her focus to testing those whispering air currents. Minerals… a hint of pine and earth, from outside…chemicals… and something else. Someone familiar. Straightening slightly, Kayo whisper-called,

"Scott?"


	41. Chapter 41

Hey, you guys! I'm in opposite-time, over here. Not jet-lagged. just lost a day. Anyhow, if this one's a bit rough still, it's because I wrote it on the way over. Hugs, Me. :)

 **41**

 _At home, just maybe-_

A jumble of impressions called for Scott's attention, all of them safe and familiar. The windows were wide open and curtained in billowing, blue-checkered cloth. The wooden table and chairs were much lived-in, but sturdy. Comfortable. More of Grandma's colorful cross-stitch livened up those fruit-patterned walls. Coffee had been set to brew, filling the house with its rich, warm scent. He could even hear John pacing around upstairs; from bedroom to bath, and back again.

On top of everything else, though, his mother had entered the room. Beautiful and smiling; dressed in jeans, boots and a paint-spattered tee-shirt. Coppery hair streaked with gold was caught back at the nape of her neck, leaving soft little tendrils framing her face. A little older than he remembered her… Lucy Tracy had died when Scott was just eleven… but still Mom. Here, alive, and coming right for him. Bouncing along in her wake was a button-cute girl of ten or eleven; dark-haired, green eyed and laughing. _Kayo?_

"Hey, Boo," his mother greeted the pilot, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "Done studying?"

Scott's jaw dropped, but he managed to nod.

"Yes, Ma'am," he whispered, shaking a little. His mother's delicate brows drew together over concerned grey-green eyes. Worried, she reached across to feel Scott's forehead, searching for fever.

"Hmm… Temperature's normal. Are you okay, Boo? You seem a mite tired."

"Um… yeah. Yes, Ma'am, that is." (The quick-correct, because Granddad had looked up from his sandwich, just then. Disrespect was not tolerated in the Tracy household. _Ever._ ). "I'm fine. It's, uh… it's always good to see you."

Kay snorted and rolled her eyes expressively; so much more animated than he recalled.

"He wants money, or he's trying to get out of his chores, Mom," she teased, putting her tongue out at Scott.

"Which you ain't done, neither, little miss," Granddad reminded her. "Got a whole mess a' chickens out there that need feedin',"

Kay inhaled sharply, as though about to protest, or shift blame. But a brief look from Granddad put an end to all that.

"Yes, Sir," she pouted. "Right as soon as I've put my things away."

"See that it don't take any longer," Granddad instructed. "Them animals depends on us, and it ain't right t' keep 'em waitin'."

Kayo nodded, maybe thinking of her pony, Charlotte.

"Yes, Granddad," she repeated, then dashed off upstairs to stow her backpack and school books. Mom busied herself in the kitchen, meanwhile, humming a tune as she worked.

Okay... in real life, Mom had been long dead when he'd finished his senior year early; cramming hard for acceptance to the GDF Flight Academy. John had followed his lead; somehow managing to juggle sport, school and acceptance exams, all at once. Only John's very few friendships had suffered, as Scott recalled. Virgil, Gordon and Alan would still be in Junior high school, he figured. Or, no… _Virge_ in junior high, the others in primary grades, still, and taking their time about coming home. Most likely, Gordon had talked his little brother into skiving off chores to go swimming in the creek. Except, this wasn't real. It couldn't be.

"Better eat that sandwich," urged Granddad, interrupting Scott's meandering thoughts. "We don't waste food, around here."

"Yessir," Scott replied, applying himself to that massive everything-burger, as Rusty waited under the table for scraps. He was _that_ close to demanding an explanation; miserable, confused, happy and hopeful, all at the same time. Only…he didn't want to pop the bubble. Did not want to wake from this dream, if that's what was happening. Figured that John could answer his questions later, after lunch 'd been cleared up, and they had some time to talk.

For now, Scott ate mechanically, not really tasting his food. Kept his eyes on Mom as she worked in the kitchen and hummed, talking sometimes with him, sometimes with Granddad; always happy, always doing.

The cat sauntered in next, leaping onto the windowsill beside Grandma's herb garden. With a delicate flirt of its tail, the grey-and-black tom turned its head and licked at the fur on one shoulder. From time to time the cat glanced at Scott with searching green eyes. The now seventeen-year-old pilot had been passing most of his scraps under the table to Rusty. Decided to reserve a few for Fish-breath, as well. Everyone pretended not to notice, except for young Kayo, who sing-songed,

"Mom, Granddad, he's feeding the dog, again!" As she exploded back out through the kitchen door to see to those chickens.

Guilty as charged, and caught in the act, with a sliver of cheese. Granddad just snorted and shook his head, saying,

"Could use some help out in th' hay barn, Scott, if y'r done studyin'. John Matthew c'n help y'r ma, 'fore he heads out t' tend t' th' horses."

"Yessir," Scott replied, starting to smile. God, how he'd hated farm work, back in the day! All he'd wanted was wings… And now, the prospect of a couple of hours pitching hay with Granddad, up in a stuffy, hot loft, had him busting like Christmas. "I'll let him know."

Grant Tracy looked a little surprised at his grandson's enthusiasm, but then nodded back.

"I'll be waitin' on ya, round back. Clean up this mess, first. Lu ain't nobody's maid."

Mom chuckled at that.

"A farmer works from sun to sun, but Lucy's work is never done," she joked, swatting at Scott with the end of a blue-and-white dishtowel. _"One_ of these days, I'll finish that mural!"

She'd been painting the side of the barn for as long as they'd been there; producing a beautiful, vivid, complex stream-of-consciousness masterpiece that burst with her own joy in living.

Scott caught the end of that snapping dishtowel, yanking Mom in for a hug; letting her snuffle his neck and kiss his forehead. Just like… like nothing had ever gone wrong, and they'd grown up like a regular family. Voice gruff with tears that he wouldn't let fall, he said,

"Love you, Mom. Guess I haven't said that, enough."

Lucinda Tracy brushed a strand of sun-fire hair out of her face, giving Scott a quizzical smile.

"I love you, too, Booster. And you'll never got too old for me to tell you so, either."

"Yes, Ma'am," he responded. Then, because why the h*ll not? He asked, "Can we have pot roast for supper?"

Granddad had already risen to wash up and head back out. A full head taller than most men, solid as a slab of rock, he rumbled,

"You'll eat what's set before ya… but I wouldn't toss pot roast t' th' hogs, myself, Lu."

Mom beamed that dimpled, lovely, Miss Texas smile at both of them, saying,

"Looks like we got us a menu. Give me an hour or so, and show up ready to eat."

That's…. what she'd always said before cooking supper, and Scott had to close his eyes for a moment; squeezing hard against sudden tears of confusion and longing.

"I'll go get John," he offered, meaning to find his closest brother, and get some d*mn answers.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Nijo Palace, Kyoto, Japan-_

Having fallen straight through a trapdoor and into an echoing, musty-damp cell, Tanusha Kyrano Tracy soon picked up a very familiar and comforting scent.

"Scott?" She repeated, stalking cautiously forward. "Can you hear me? Are you conscious?"

If not, well, she wasn't Gordon or anything, but Kay could certainly handle basic first aid and victim care. "Scott?"

She heard a rustling noise, detected movement in the shadows. There was another sound, as well, as if someone had started to speak, but left off. No welcome, no sense of familiarity in voice _or_ in mind.

An icy bone finger slid down Kayo's spine, as she threw aside caution and hurried forward. Found… emptiness. The physical shell of her tall, handsome brother, huddled on bare concrete, in some sort of orange coverall.

No identity, no memories, no self. Only pain and disorientation, salved by the Unity Commission's trademark "happy reflection". They'd left him Rusty, begging for scraps at the kitchen table, and Granddaddy, singing off-key. Only that was left, of his twenty-eight years on the planet; his courage and leadership

An anguished cry tore from Kayo, as she dropped to her knees beside the empty young man who had been her brother. " _Noooo_ ," Kayo mourned, reaching for someone who'd already gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The Manhattan Quarantine Zone, in perilous straits-_

As his actions had unquestionably exacerbated an already grave situation, the Survivor moved to resolve his errors. Not being familiar with Third World's restricted zones, he'd removed the exploring life-mates to a place that intrigued them… this "Manhattan". In retrospect, a mistake.

The portal had then opened, sweeping up further biologicals, each of them following that first misrouted pair. Now the Carbon-based space-farer had lost mass, partly devoured by plants rapacious for flesh as well as wavelengths. The life-mates were also threatened.

So, as the Survivor could not take shelter in a host that was being consumed, he braved the risk of absorption, and acted. Swift as light, he converted the three wounded organics to data, then jumped that comm signal and flashed away from the flooded building. The two closest vessels received an explorer, each. His temporary host, he retained, for in no other way could an energy being traverse that savagely dangerous wormhole. What occurred next was quick and alarming.

In Thunderbird 4, Gordon Tracy slapped the comm to accept John's message. Only, there was this flash of green light, and then Ellie Pendergast materialised in his cockpit, wild-eyed and gasping for breath. Not sure who was more surprised, but the beautiful blonde looked around, did not see Buddy or John, and had to be restrained from leaving the sub.

Up in Thunderbird 3, meanwhile, Alan had whooped aloud, shouting,

"Boo-yah! It's John or Gordon, bet me! They've found Buddy and Ellie, and they're ready for pickup!"

Al and Piper both dived for that comm button. Instead of getting coordinates, or a message, they got Buddy Pendergast, who seemed to just coallesce out of eerie green light.

The red-capped explorer had been caught and transported in the act of waving something around like a dang wand. Almost fell over from shock and momentum, before a wide-eyed Piper managed to steady him.

"Ellie? Bluey! Wot's 'appened?" he growled, turning to face Alan. "Where are they? We've got t' go back, y' hear me? _We've got t' go back f'r 'em!"_

While elsewhere, sheltered by a partly dispersed organic host, the Survivor launched himself into that roaring wormhole; riding straight up a torrent of water, and into black nothingness.


	42. Chapter 42

Hi there. :) Time to admit that I don't own these guys. I just have fun visiting. Hope you will, too. Thanks, Creative Girl, Akimakel and Tikatu, for reviewing.

 **42**

 _Down in the depths, between Pacifica City and the hovering Prototype-_

There was _risky_ … and there was "Why the h*ll not? Nothing else appears to be working." Those portal-stirred currents were too strong for the struggling diving bell, which was whipping around too much to dock with the city's emergency access hatch. Times like these, you wanted Thunderbird 4, not an overturned cup on a string.

That's why they tried it; the whole dumb, _we're-gonna-die-Been-nice-knowin'-ya_ , scheme. Mike… Max, that is… didn't like it, but then, robots could never figure brashness and plain, stupid luck into their logic and physics. That sort of thing was entirely human.

At any rate, close by a crumbling trench, near an undersea station supported by floats and riddled with eerie red fire, Virgil and Lee put the plan into action. Up at their left spun the portal, drifting along like a madman's nightmarish sunrise, its glow flicking on and off as it turned.

Very reluctantly, Max hauled in the juddering diving bell. His Morse code beeps and trills were quite eloquent and completely dismissed by the two men within. Yeah, it was stupid… but at this point, they hadn't much choice. Not if they wanted to save any lives. Virgil Tracy was not in his element, here, but he trusted Lee's judgment and stuck to the plan, as their craft made its unsteady way toward Thunderbird P.

Watching that slow-moving, lightning-edged wormhole, Virgil said,

"At the rate that thing's vacuuming seawater, there must be one h*ll of a lake forming on the other side."

Lee looked up from his figures. He was a numbers guy, and always performed reams worth of suicide-plan calculations, before plunging in.

"I expect so," he agreed, smoothing his mustache with the fingers and thumb of one hand. "Wouldn't much care ta stand underneath it, or… if it's spinnin' on that end, too… alongside. Sucker 'd blast ya halfway ta h*ll 'n back."

Then, as their vessel stopped rising, and they heard/ felt its cable lock down, Captain Taylor moved on, saying,

"B'lieve I got these sums worked out pretty near accurate, Vic. We'll need ta come in at a real shallow angle… make her twenty-two degrees off horizontal… whilst Mike brings P down ta fifty feet above the airlock, an' mates shields. With P boostin' Pacifica's shieldin', we oughta be pertected enough f'r a quick an' dirty lock-on. After that, hafta scoot on inside n' play it by ear, I guess. Grab who we can, an' lift 'em on outta there."

Virgil nodded.

"Ready when you are, Sir."

Certainly, it was going to get interesting, the younger man figured. The airlock in question lay at the very top of the dome, where six long, curving spars met. This access point was meant to be reached from below by an elevator, which was most likely not working… but Virgil and Lee had a trick for that.

At Taylor's signal, the Prototype began its descent. Virgil monitored the bell's position the whole time, using light, swift maneuvers to keep them at optimum angle and distance from Thunderbird P. Eyeballed it, mostly, because unlike Scott, he wasn't so much of an instrument flier.

Lee handled side to side steering, keeping a weather eye on that crackling portal. As their descent continued (Virgil swore he could feel the Prototype's massive, rumbling bulk, just overhead) Max scanned the frequency of Pacifica City's overstressed force field, and doubled the strength of their own. Hard on fuel, but again: no choice.

Repeated hails to the city below went unanswered. Comms must've been down inside the dome; their power diverted to shields. That, or no one was left alive. Virgil preferred to think they were silenced, but waiting for help. That he and Taylor wouldn't get in to find nothing but half-frozen corpses, huddled by hatches that just wouldn't budge. He and Gordon had been on one of those, and sometimes he still got nightmares. Beer helped. Music, too.

"Take us a mite lower, Mike," Taylor was saying. "Bring 'er down another five feet, an' see if ya cain't roll left about three degrees. Current's shifted, again. Need some cover."

Max chirped a response, and performed like the artist he was. Below them, a ghostly rainbow bubble contorted itself upward, straining to meet the attractive force of the Prototype's boosted shielding. The two weren't quite close enough to merge, though; not with Pacifica's generators now running on nothing but prayer and fumes.

"Sh*t," Lee grunted. Then, "Mike, gimme five more feet, an' open th' bell's launch bay, just in case."

If they were lined up just right, their small craft might escape being ground to paste, by slamming back into her hold. Gave their survival chances an extra few percentage points, anyhow, and Taylor would gratefully accept whatever the fates were handing out free.

Max beeped a response. Above them, the bay doors ground obediently open; their vibration communicated quite clearly through dense, freezing brine. The Prototype shifted position slightly, as well; forcing Virgil to take in some cable.

Dark eyes narrowed in concentration, he focused on keeping them right between Pacifica City on one hand, and the now-open hold on the other. Then, just when the Prototype was all but perched on that wounded and faltering station, the two shields touched, flowed together and mated. Sent a brief, crackling surge flaring upward, but didn't exactly hurt.

All business, Captain Taylor wasted no time in celebration. Grunted,

"Got us a shield lock, Mike. Use whatever reserves ya got, but keep th' city pertected, an' hold off that d*mn current. Initiatin' dockin' maneuvers… _now."_

Between them, working in about as much space as it took to park a bus, Lee and Virgil brought the diving bell down over Pacifica City's topside emergency airlock. Rough sledding, even for two natural pilots and the smartest robot Brains had ever developed. That enhanced, mated force shield helped somewhat… but the current, fiercely channeled between dome and Bird, still roared and attacked like a dragon.

Still and all, progress was made. Yard by foot by scraped-for inch, they fought their way downward; working in perfect synch. The cable's hum rose in pitch at it shortened, going from thrumming bass to mosquito whine. Finally, they clanked against Pacifica City's hatch. Too far to the right… smacked the side rather than locking on… but they'd come close.

Virgil nudged them back upward. Three, maybe four feet. Metal ground and shrieked against metal, no doubt sounding like a chorus of banshees, inside. Then a sudden shift in the portal's suction whirled them around, snagging one of the bell's docking clamps on the hatch rim.

Taylor cursed, retracted the clamps, and tried again. Told the Universe, just conversationally,

"See, th' thing is… we ain't givin' up. There's people down there waitin' f'r rescue, an' that's exactly whut they're gonna git. Now, a mite more cooperation would be real welcome but… _unh…_ one way… or another… me, Victor an' Mike… we're makin' this happen. Just so's ya know."

Then, just for an instant, that spinning portal turned edge-on, and the current slackened. The effect lasted only a few seconds, but that was all that they needed. The bell spun, swung, hit just right, and locked on; clamps snapping down into the airlock's open receptors with a deep, booming **CLANG**.

 _Now,_ Taylor grinned, looking like he'd just caught the world's biggest sport fish, using nothing but twine and a crumpled-up tinfoil ball.

"Capture," he announced, clapping a hand to Virgil's broad shoulder. Next added, over the comm,

"Mike, guess it'd be redundant ta say you got nerves a' steel… but you, me an' Vic make one h*lluva rescue team."

The robot chirped a modest response, making ready to hold Thunderbird Prototype just overhead. Virgil was already out of his seat and halfway to the docking hatch, med-kit in hand. Captain Taylor waited long enough to shut down the bell's engine, then leapt up to follow him.

That was when fifty more feet of crumbling trench gave way with a sudden, apocalyptic roar; sending an avalanche of rock and mud thundering into the gaping darkness below.


	43. Chapter 43

Written at night, posted in haste; experiencing whirlwind good time with my best friend and daughter. =)

 **43**

 _Moving, very fast-_

He was neither quite conscious, nor -un; in those split few seconds of light-speed transit, no longer the host, but a passenger. That moment of transfer through the wormhole was stretched out this time, and he didn't lose awareness. Instead, John felt himself fly up that column of falling water with his alien visitor, then reach and pass through the crackling portal.

Here, two points in space had been linked together by clever mathematics and a huge, sudden power surge. That frankenstein connection would have persisted, maybe forever, if someone hadn't been able to absorb most of its energy by going back through, and then cutting the hole's thin, straining middle. Perfect timing was required, because if you slashed the portal's throat in the wrong spot, you'd just get two free, whipping ends that could open back up anywhere, any _when_ , at all.

On the plus side, the Survivor was micro-precise, with skills further boosted by John Tracy's mind, plus a set emergency plans newly posted by Tycho Reeves (still working, blinded and deafened, or not). For power, the alien had a falling Pacific Ocean, the Earth's whirling core and the hole, itself. Just a matter of dropping in, cloning Reeves' razor-sharp algorithm, and then slicing right through.

No Carbon-based traveler could have done it, alone. They could not channel power enough, nor slow time during the "fall through". No energy being would have retained cohesion, amid all of those shifting and rippling fields. The job required a partnership, for about ten compressed seconds of streaming, mish-mashed light and flaring equations.

The Survivor wielded Reeves' maths, violently severing two points in spacetime, and sending their ends flaring off. Came to a swift decision, in the process. Here, after all, was the power to cross great reaches of space. Vast gulfs of time. So, he impressed a message on the Carbon Space Farer's brain matter, stole some sheltering circuitry, and then jumped, just before those two severed ends whipped forever apart. Took John awhile to sense it, though. At the time, he…

…just reappeared; in cold and darkness, surrounded by creaking wet metal. Stumbled a little, using his right hand to feel around for his truncated left arm, which was _there._ Whole and attached. With fingers, cuff link and pressed, laundered shirt, even.

Yeah, he was kind of punchy. Took him a few minutes to ramp down all of that stress and adrenaline. You didn't just eye-blink from fighting for your life and your friends, then traversing and sealing a d*mn wormhole, to possible safety or, y'know… underwater tomb. Not without a few major side effects.

The alien traveler was out of his head, and the place was entirely dark, but he still had his wrist comm, which he could use to create a pale glow. Figured he'd been dropped back off in Pacifica City, judging by some of the signs and lettering on those bowed, flexing bulkheads. Then, like streamers of lightning, lines of red flame came blazing across the deck and overhead to surround him in hair-lifting energy.

"Hallo, Jaeger," he greeted the flaring AI. "Good to see you." That was one friend accounted for. Couldn't find Buddy and Ellie, Eos or Penny, though. Well, no reason to stay off the grid, here, so John hit his wrist comm. Tuned in on a total sh*t-storm of: "Buddy's with us, who's got Ellie?" "She's here in Thunderbird 4. Where's John?" "Anyone seen Scott, or Penny?" "Kay, are you listening? What's your status?"

…stuff like that. A nearby hatch opened up, groaningly slow and backed by whispered voices. Company. Feeling about ten million pounds roll off of his heart, John gave his wrist comm a swift, coded tap. The Pendergasts were alive. Surely Scott, too, would…

"John, Dear…? John, is that you?"

Somebody sped through the yawning hatch, using the dim beam of their multi tool as a faltering lamp. Thing'd been on for some time, apparently, and was low on power. Penny.

"Yeah. I'm here," he said, as the damp and bedraggled young woman raced over to hug him. She was still wearing his white tuxedo jacket, John noticed. For a moment, he thought she was crying, but then she pulled her head away from his chest, sniffed a bit and said,

"How madly pleasant to see you again, John. Are you quite all right?"

 _Well…_

"I'm fine. Just…"

Battling panic and confusion. Still reeling from attack, dismemberment and the shock of sudden healing.

"…a little tired, is all." John hugged her right back, deciding (yet again) that he was _never_ going to another one of Pen's effing soirées. _Ever._

Her fingers knit themselves tightly through his, as Lady Penelope began tugging him back in the direction of the opened hatch, which was now birthing multitudes. People. Great.

"Your Majesty," she half-laughed, half-sobbed. "It seems that you have won our wager. For here, returned alive and well, is our dear, stubborn John!"

A great many backslaps and handshakes followed, there in the noisy, wet half-dark, because: add one Tracy, improve everyone's odds of survival. Only the Colonel would have been better. Meanwhile, the ocean pressed down and his bothers struggled and battled outside, arranging their rescue.

John played the part that Penny needed him to. Acting like a date, not just a friend and near brother-in-law. Once again, he was the IR mystery man and dashing, last-minute hero. Perfectly calm on the outside; torn up and smudged deep within, where no one could see it.

He was expected to join Penny in taking charge of their group, so he did that: using Jaeger to trace out the best path to safety, and his laser cuff link to burn a few homemade doors. Found additional folks on the way, including the station's hypothermic bridge crew. Score, huh? All they had to do now was reach an exterior airlock and survive long enough to be rescued.

Could have done without that sudden earthquake, though.


	44. Chapter 44

Thank you, Akimakel, Bow Echo, Creative Girl and Susan, for reading and reviewing. Exuberant thanks are winging your way!

 **44**

 _Earlier, at the Kyoto, "Navy town" hospital, suite 117-_

There would, of course, be hell to pay. No question at all about that. Not just once, but _twice_ his inventions… his world-changing visions… had gone quite publicly wrong. That first time (involving the high-speed train) Tycho had been onsite, able to help Scott Tracy get matters sorted. _This_ time, he was confined to a hospital bed, unable to see or hear, communicating solely through his haptic keyboard and cyberlink.

Thank Peace, Plenty and Progress for the WorldNet, through which he could still meet with his colleagues and design a solution. Using the global interface, Tycho was able to reach Hiram Hackenbacker, out on Tracy Island. Then, using IR's highly advanced computers, collaborating with his self-styled "biggest fan", Tycho prepared to take action.

Fine. He'd inadvertently opened a wormhole _right there on Earth._ One end lay in the depths of the ocean just over his original goal, Pacifica City. The other had somehow shifted from Kyoto, Japan, to one of Earth's deadliest toxic no-go zones: Manhattan, New York.

No-go, because of a very public disaster, in which a GDF salvage crew had awakened one of the conflict's most dreaded ancient weapons: a manhunter. International Rescue had eventually shut down and destroyed the thing… disposing of its highly illegal Artificial Intelligence in the process. But, the world government would not tolerate a repetition. They'd sealed the dead zone borders, retroactively re-teaching all students, media sites and public employees that such places didn't exist. Easy enough, when you controlled all the data.

Tycho's cyberverse avatar shook its silvery head at that, because covering one's eyes with both hands did not take away danger. If anything, it only made trouble more likely. No one paid him the big cred to make policy, though. That was for people like Chancellor Shaw and Colonel Casey.

At any rate, working with Doctor Hackenbacker (whose avatar was a blue-skinned, dark-haired young man with many arms, each one brandishing a different primitive weapon) Tycho got to work on how to shut off an unstable, wandering hole in reality.

They met up in one of Reeves' favourite cybernet sub-regions, the Think Tank. He had his own secure "room" there, with guaranteed privacy, plenty of bandwidth and an unlimited power supply. Expensive, yes. But, his patents and development skills brought in funds aplenty. More than enough to keep him logged in and working.

Hackenbacker had been invited and was soon admitted, along with Professor Moffat, his chief collaborator. (No special avatar; she'd chosen a basic, zero-cred icon, instead.)

"Doctor Reeves," said the Blue-skinned avatar, bowing slightly, "it remains a distinct pleasure to work with you."

Here, Tycho noted, the man had no stutter, but that musical accent of his was somehow more pronounced. Tycho's silvery paladin nodded, saying,

"It is good to see and work with you, as well, Doctors. I have had my meatware placed on drip-feed, so that we shall not be disturbed by needless minutae. The hospital staff will, I presume, keep me alive. If not, I have transferred sufficient neuronal energy to maintain conscious function, here in the cyberverse. Shall we commence?"

The blue man nodded, as did rent-a-face (who wasn't talking much, and showed a subtle, mid-section glow).

"indeed, Doctor Reeves. Now, as I see the problem…"

 _"Feature,_ Doctor. This is all simply an unexpected side-effect associated with matter transmission. _Not_ a bug. _Not_ a problem. Properly harnessed, this development opens up vistas, Gentlemen… erm, fellow citizens, I mean to say."

Dr. Moffat spoke for the first time, then, causing her plain, off the rack smile-face icon to grow in size and brightness.

"No doubt, Dr. Reeves. Harnessed wormholes are every thinking researcher's dream of instant, far-ranging transport. But, the fact remains that _yours_ is now draining the Pacific Ocean onto a Western Territories' quarantine zone. I do believe that _that_ could legitimately be termed a problem… _Doctor."_

Reeves' silvery amour developed a line of spikes.

"From a certain, short-sighted perspective, possibly so," he grumped, adding, "Shall we move on? The question at hand is how to shut down the actual link, while retaining utility, should we decide that instantaneous transport is required at some future date."

Hackenbacker's avatar brightened and swelled, as he both paced out a complex dance, and spoke up.

"No scientific feat is ever truly _required,_ Doctor Reeves. Were the human race still crouched in their rock shelters, consuming scavenged raw flesh, we would still survive as part of a pattern, rather than swallowing up all the rest in our quest for dominance."

Dr. Moffat's icon flickered at that point, as though she were paying attention to something else, or in physical meat-space distress.

"Back to the point, you two… if Hiram and I have got your methodology straight, Doctor Reeves, you have reached down into the sub-fields underlying reality, to shift a few matrix numbers, thus creating a linkage between two distant sites. Am I, in essence, correct?"

"Basically," Tycho allowed, glad that _somebody_ got it. "Although I was simply attempting to shift matter by altering its locational field points… not create a pair of linked portals. That… came as something of a surprise."

"I can imagine," said Brains, taking back over the conversation. "Now, as we are faced with an unstable, infelicitiously located set of holes, our purpose must be to close them. The question then becomes, _how?"_

Reeves' paladin sat down on his cyber-site's suddenly manifested furniture. The place was currently set to resemble an old English coffee house, complete with roaring fire and wet, hung-up tweeds. Very few patrons, however, and the walls were simple curtains of cascading data.

"Yes, well… have a seat, please… our options are to revise those numbers at the source: my transport disks…"

"Which would be difficult," said the smile-face icon, back in full force. "Considering that one has been partly destroyed, and the other now lies at the bottom of the sea."

"Granted, there have been challenges," Tycho admitted. "Plan B, as they say, is to make our adjustments in situ, whilst transiting the open wormhole."

Nobody spoke, for a moment. On the face of it, the prospect was dauntingly hard, if not impossible. Human voyagers experienced no time or consciousness at all, while traversing the portal. They would not be able to so much as sneeze, much less alter basic reality.

"Right, then," said Dr. Moffat, after a brief, pregnant pause. "What else have we got?"

"Perhaps _'who_ else' is the proper question, My Dear," said Hackenbacker, moving to stand nearer the faded and flickering smile face. "If one were willing to take a slight risk, the Mechanic might be persuaded to make the attempt. His cybernetic enhancements could give him precisely the edge that we need."

…and, of course, Kane was a former black-market customer. Reliable enough, when it came to business, and something of an ally, besides. Reeves' paladin cocked its helmeted head, saying,

"You trust him? You can make contact?"

The blue man nodded.

"I believe so, yes. With your permission, Doctor Reeves, I shall make the attempt."

His other possibility was the alien Survivor, who was away with Captain Rigby, seeking Scott. But no one commanded Survivor, or summoned him, either.

Knowing that Kane monitored all transmissions relating to himself, Brains first received Tycho's go-ahead, then broadcast a swift, coded inquiry. No doubt, Reeves had thought his private cyber-room entirely secure. And so it had always seemed, until the curtain of streaming symbols that served as his walls froze suddenly, then shattered like crystal, admitting a massive, lion-headed man in dark armor. Yellow-eyed and grim as some ancient beast god, the figure brushed past Reeves' countermeasures, and stepped warily into the room.

In physical person, the Mechanic was a large and intimidating machine-man. A tattooed and shaven cyborg. His cyber-self was still more alarming, for that aura of fear that he constantly broadcast went directly into one's mind. More than that, all of the room's data seemed drawn to him; causing its walls and furnishings to lean inward and then begin to unravel. Bit by bit, their substance trickled into Kane's avatar, feeding him power.

To his credit, Dr. Reeves did not cower before the Mechanic, any more than he had when faced with Havok and Fuse. Rather, he took a step forward, ignoring the constant stream of silvery pixels which were leaving his icon to enlarge a disguised and dangerous cyborg.

Kane scarcely glanced at him, or Dr. Moffat. Instead, that golden lion's head turned to regard the engineer.

"Tell me why I'm not going to just kill you… and _these_ … in the next thirty seconds," he rumbled, pacing farther inside.

Such violence was impossible within the Net, they'd been assured. Rigid security measures prevented any such…

"I'm waiting, Horatio."

Horatio? A possible clue to the IR technician's true identity? Tycho filed the name away for future investigation, along with that avatar and musical accent. In the meantime, Dr. Hackenbacker's icon made placating motions with all of its many blue hands. Might have been more reassuring had he not been wielding swords, spears and maces while doing so.

"You will _not_ kill us, because you are about to receive useful technology, Kane," the engineer told him, adding, "You are aware of the wormhole linking the Pacific Ocean and Manhattan dead-zone, I take it?"

The lion-head grunted assent, those hot golden eyes never leaving Brains' face. Didn't mean that he wasn't aware of the others, however. Reeves had cleared his throat to cut in, only to find himself not only frozen, but attacked in real time, as well. The machinery back in his hospital room all at once began to malfunction. At some level of reality, Tycho could sense his vital signs monitor going insane.

"It would be tough to miss," Kane admitted guardedly. "Your doing, or _these?"_

Brains produced a complex, many-shouldered shrug, saying,

"It was supposed to be simply a transport device. A matter transmitter. Unfortunately, interference from the Chaos Crew has led to a breakdown, which in turn opened the wormhole."

The lion snorted.

 _"Your_ problem, not mine. And, an attempt to sell that tech has most likely slaughtered your idiot Chaos Crew. Someone else already has those plans. You're wasting my time, Horatio."

The blue-skinned avatar shook its sleek head.

"There is a better version available... and we need your help, Kane. We mean to close the wormhole, but it must be done from within, by an individual with your rather remarkable skill set. In return for this aid, you shall receive transport schematics and monetary payment as well, if I may contact WorldGov to arrange transfer of funds."

The Mechanic's muscular avatar was covered in creeping and glowing tattoos. They seemed to vary in brightness as his mood and attention shifted. Just now, they were glowing quite strongly.

"Anything I want from the vermin World Council, I take, Horatio. Do you think that their toy security measures can stop me?" He had conjured a shot glass brimming with stimulant code, which streamed directly into his icon, along with everything else in that shrinking and fading node.

Not good. Doctor Reeves didn't like being left out of the conversation. Even by a notorious killer. Even when his cyberverse stronghold was being unraveled around him. Shaking free, momentarily, Tycho spoke up and said,

"Assuming that you find the Earth a congenial place to live and do business, Mechanic, it would surely behoove you to…"

One of the lion-head's ears flicked in his direction. Speaking to Brains, still, the cyborg said,

"Shut it up before _I_ do, Horatio. As to the rest… your money means less than nothing to me. Anyhow, I've already been accused of killing the Chaos Crew, for plans I didn't take. No need to make those accusations more believable. But... scanning the vermin's data, I can see that you'll need a powerful algorithm to de-link those holes. Send it along once you've completed it. If the numbers look sound, I'll see what I can do. No promises."

…because he had no submarine, and no fast way to reach Manhattan, short of stealing a Thunderbird. Horatio didn't have to know that, though.

Trusting his ally, Hackenbacker smiled and then sketched a slight bow.

"Accepted, Kane. I will be in touch, once we have coded the slicer, and developed a strong enough power source."

"In return," rumbled the Mechanic, "I want ten grams of your nanostructure units, retaining full self-replication ability." With those, he could build _anything_. With the algorithm, there was nothing he couldn't destroy. From Kane's perspective, a real bargain.


	45. Chapter 45

**45**

 _Earlier, in Nijo Palace, near Kyoto, Japan-_

Captain Wayne Rigby hadn't been that far behind Kayo, his clients' beautiful sister. Yet, he'd somehow lost sight of her; had lost a few steps in that broken-down maze of rubbish-strewn passages.

The place was cold, drafty and quite dark, for one thing; with treacherously rotted wood floors and (as Tanusha later confirmed) plenty of crumbling beams. Recall those video games that you've played, in which some brave, leaping character has to pass through a ludicrously gutted building; leaping gulfs and avoiding hazards on his way to do battle? _Exactly._

What the heck, throw in some extra lives, as well, because with his dormant guest along for the ride, Wayne simply _wouldn't_ stay dead. Couldn't, really.

What he _did_ do was track Kayo. Tried, anyhow. His GDF locator gear appeared to be fritzing, producing two blurred images, at first… then one, and none at all. _Uh…_

"Miss Tracy?" Wayne called out, as he balanced on a flame-scarred and sagging wood beam. "Miss Tracy, can you hear me?"

Seriously, he hadn't waited the full time limit, even. Had instead jumped the gun, departing Thunderbird Shadow at four minutes, thirty-five seconds from last glimpse of Kayo. Nor had he loitered. There was simply no way that she could have got _that_ far ahead of him. Not in a mess like _this_. Not unless she could fly.

Overhead, worm-eaten boards dribbled guano and dust, admitting a cold, hissing wind. Some of the walls were still painted with faint golden birds and fanciful, snarling bears, spotted with damp and decay. At his feet, great gaps in the flooring promised a sharp and probably fatal drop. Off to the left, through a mildewed and part-collapsed screen, Wayne spied a doorway.

Cautiously, he began edging along the splintered wood beam; both arms splayed out, for balance. Thing about legal team desk jobs… they didn't prepare you for _this._ For following Tracys from death to disaster, and back.

Right. So, first thing he got back to T.I., Wayne vowed, he was hitting the gym. Practicing Tai Chi and Karate with Kayo, or power-lifting with Virgil… maybe running, alongside of Scott… or trying to keep up with Gordon, out in the pool. Exercise, and plenty of it. Help him get closer to Miss Tracy's family, while scoring some autograph-selfies for Amelia, his little sister. Then,

"Wayne?" He heard. "Captain Rigby? I'm down here! Hurry, please… it's Scott! He needs help!"

Almost, the Marine lost his balance. Tanusha's faint voice had come from far below him. At his current lamed snail's pace, Wayne estimated at least thirty minutes to climb down to that level. Wretched GDF locator was no help, at all; seeming not quite able to fix her position, darn it.

Well… Captain Rigby glanced downward, peering doubtfully past splintered wood and rotted paper, to whispery darkness. He could always jump for it, trusting that the Survivor would resurrect and repair his shattered corpse, once he'd hit bottom. Not the ideal solution, but…

"Please, Captain, hurry!" Kayo called out, sounding truly frantic.

That's what decided him. In his own estimation, Wayne Robert Rigby was 'just a guy'. Marine first, lawyer second, loyal son and loving brother, most of all. But he wasn't afraid to put it all on the line when somebody needed him. Especially someone like _her._ Taking a deep breath, he bellowed back,

"Hang on, Miss Tracy, I'm coming!"

…and then stepped off of that beam, having entirely failed to realize that Survivor was no longer with him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Back home, in a blissfully altered Kansas farmhouse-_

Scott gave his mother one more kiss and warm hug, shook Granddad's work-roughened hand, and then hurried upstairs; rocking the house with that two-steps-at-a-time charge.

"Slow down!" Shouted somebody, just coming in. Grandma, sounded like.

Scott grinned. Hanging to the newel post with one hand, he swung around it and upward. Felt… younger. Stronger.

"Yes, Ma'am!" He shouted back, slowing his pace. (A little.)

Reached the second floor just as his brother was finished up dressing. Out of his baseball gear, John had on jeans and a black tee shirt. Was sitting at the edge of his bed, hauling his boots on.

"Hey, Scott," he said, looking up. "What's for dinner?"

"Pot roast," the pilot supplied, thumping down onto their rolling chair. "Granddad wants you to help mom in the kitchen, before you head out for the barn. I'm on hay detail."

"Ouch," said John, sympathetically. Stood up next, to don a belt and tie back his wet, red-golden hair. "What'd you do to piss him off?"

Scott grimaced, remembering.

"I tried to take some of his beer," he admitted, earning a wide-eyed stare from John.

"Seriously? In broad daylight? You're braver than I thought. Dumber, too."

John had to duck the crumpled paper napkin that Scott threw at him. Caught the thing and then hurled it right back, reflexively. They threw back and forth for awhile, then; each trying to slip past the other's guard and hit something. Double points for a head shot, as always. Said Scott, after a bit,

"John… I got a question for you, Buddy… and I need a straight answer."

His younger brother was like a Goddam pitching machine, firing harder with each throw.

"I'm listening," he said, without breaking rhythm.

"Um…" (How best to ask, without sounding crazy?) "Have we always lived here? I mean, with Granddad, Mom and Grandma? In Kansas?"

John cocked an eyebrow.

"Not always," he responded, scoring a point on Scott's left shoulder. _"Gotcha._ Before here, we lived out in Texas, remember? At the Space Station prep base, near Houston. I was pretty young, but I've still got a few memories. That's where Dad and Mom met up."

Scott nodded. As the grey cat sauntered back in, crossing beneath their barrage to reclaim his warm, sunlit window seat, the pilot said,

"I'm gonna be honest with you, here, John… I don't remember things happening like that. I, um… I recall us leaving Kansas a lot sooner, and, ah… and Mom and Grandad being already… y' know, _dead_."

John caught their paper wad ball, and this time held it. His face was as taut and inwardly focused as if he'd been out on the pitcher's mound, ready to psych out a batter.

"That's not funny, Scott. Mom's fine, so's Granddad… and Dad 'll be back next month. I'm getting my hair cut before he shows up."

Scott's head dipped. He regarded those floorboards as though the familiar old knots and grain contained answers. Then he said,

"I really, really would love for all that to be true, John… but I'm not seventeen. I'm twenty-eight. I don't remember all that, because for me, it didn't happen the same way. Yeah… Dad came back, but by that point you, me and the kids were being raised by just Grandma. We left Kansas a long time before, because of… well, it didn't happen _here,_ I guess… but we called it the Blight. Everything getting sick and dying off from radiation and weaponised germs."

John's sea green eyes narrowed.

"Sounds like you fell asleep reading one of Dad's science fiction books, Scott. Next thing you'll tell me is, we're all some kind of…"

"Heroes?" Scott finished for him. "Was that what you were going to say, John? Sounds to me like you remember more than you think. Now, maybe this _is_ a dream. Maybe I'm injured or dying, and I've created a heaven to make myself happy… but maybe not. And maybe you know which one's the truth. I need your help, John. Talk to me, please. What in God's name is happening, here?!"


	46. Chapter 46

Back home, again. Thank you for putting up with my spotty posting, whilst abroad. Had a wonderful time, already missing my daughter. =')

 **46**

 _In the wild and chaotic ocean, over Pacifica City-_

Their hastily-constructed diving bell had just been locked down, when that fragile trench wall gave way. Shoved at by savage currents and flaring energy, millions of tons of mud, rock and dark-grey organic slime went hurtling over the edge like a massive in-the-waterfall. Down and away it all plunged, to an abyss so deep that it ended in boiling mantle.

The noise was tremendous; volcanic. Transmitted through seawater with a great deal more hammering force than it would have possessed on land, the shock and noise of this sudden collapse rocketed outward. And then, as the seafloor shifted and slid beneath her, Pacifica City moved, too.

Inside the bell, Virgil was flung forward, catching himself on a bulkhead brace before he could face-plant onto the wildly vibrating deck. The resultant tone (for some reason he always thought of these things) was A flat minor.

Lee was only halfway out of his seat when it happened… when that fist-of-the-gods _**BOOM**_ struck their shuddering rescue craft. Undersea shockwaves were incredibly more intense, and this one had begun just a stone's throw away. The bell sprang several leaks, but nothing that Mini-Max couldn't handle. Meanwhile, that weakened trench was still crumbling away.

"We're gonna hafta move fast, Vic," urged Captain Taylor, as Virgil shook off the worst, and then got those two hatches open. "That cliff ain't got very much longer, and th' city's right there, on top. Damfool place t' park y'r residence, in my opinion… but ain't no one asked me."

Making ready to slide down through the airlock, and into the shifting city, Virgil cocked a heavy dark eyebrow.

"Think of it as extra job security, Sir," he suggested, hitting the hatch's emergency ladder. "You gotta admit, it's nice to feel needed."

A chime sounded, followed by a brief, buzzing alarm. Then a long metal pole rattled down from its housing, bridging the gap to the deck, below. Lee chuckled.

"They coulda just sent me a card," he said wryly, watching Virgil step onto that telescoping emergency stairway. (Really just a hollow pole with pegs sticking out on alternate sides). "I ain't _that_ hard ta please."

Inside, the domed city was dark and cold, lit only by glow strips, and the sullen red glitter of John's _other_ illegal partner. Not that Virgil had any complaints. Any help at all was perfectly welcome, as far as the muscular pilot was concerned. A sentiment that countless others shared, judging by the sounds of cheering, below. All of that sudden applause nearly drowned out the groan of stressed metal and perma-glass that surrounded them.

"Mike," Taylor spoke into his comm-unit, "Switch on th' d*mn floodlights, wouldja? Cain't see m'self think, down here." Because… "Hold on a spell. Vic?"

"Yessir," Virgil was about halfway down the ladder, now… but he'd always been a fast climber.

"You see a big, spinnin' hole, anywheres?" Lee enquired, squinting out through the dome at nothing but stygian darkness.

Virgil clung to the ladder with one hand and a booted foot as he swung around for a quick, three-sixty scan.

"Nossir," he admitted, breaking into a sudden, wide grin. "Looks like score one for our side."

Lee followed him down. Outside, two of the Maxes began skittering across the dome, repairing small cracks with Brains' best industrial contact cement.

"Musta been Doc or Jase that done it," grunted the captain. "Mebbe y'r daddy… if he ever brung that d*mn station under control."

Didn't mention Eos directly. Didn't have to. Whatever had done it… however they'd managed… the portal was closed, hopefully for good and forever. Neither man felt like poking their luck with dumb questions.

By this time, Thunderbird P's floodlights were trained on the domed city, which was still shifting position. Virgil redoubled his pace. He could now see his breath misting up in that stale, frigid air. Saw plenty of anxious, upturned faces, below. Heard… barking? Cat noises? Some sort of warbling hoot?

"Uh… Question, sir?"

"Fire away," Taylor responded, about five feet higher up that vibrating ladder.

"What's the protocol for rescuing animals on this one?" Every mission was different, and sometimes… like that mess with the giant air-lifted panda… animals _were_ the mission. Plus, barking might mean Sherbert, who could maybe lead them to Lady Penelope.

"People comes first, every time. Then, if we got room, an' it ain't too dangerous, we go after th' critters. Get Mike ta set up a passel o' stalls, or somethin' like that."

"Understood," said Virgil, letting go of the rungs to drop those last ten feet. Did not hit the deck. Landed instead in a tangle of cushioning, welcoming arms. Times like these, he was _really_ popular.

So, they'd come down in a crowded and freezing park; filled with all of those workers and guests who'd been able to reach Pacifica's "surface". Said one of them, shaking Virgil's hand,

"Thank you for coming here after us! Don't know how much longer we could've held out!" He wore a visored helmet and dark-blue security coverall; sported a mild taser by way of armament. You know… to tickle drunk and disorderly guests with.

"That's our job," smiled Virgil, detaching his well-shaken hand. Then, indicating his uncle, "This is Captain Lee Taylor, and I'm Virgil Tracy. How many people have we got up here, and what can I call you, Sir?"

The patrolman straightened, a little. Virgil Tracy wasn't the _Colonel,_ but even that name was a tonic

"Lieutenant Vickers, Sir… and there are a hundred and twenty of us here in the park. Flooding protocols have sealed up all the hatches into the city proper, Sir. We can hear banging, but we can't get them out. I've tried."

"We got a trick f'r that," remarked Taylor, patting their second-best plasma cutter. (Virgil's was bigger, but skill and experience made all the difference.) "If'n ya don't care how much damage gets done…?"

Vickers shook his head, dark eyes fierce with resolve.

"Do what you have to, Sir. Let the bean-counters sort it out, afterward. I've got people… my girlfriend's still trapped down there." His voice wavered a bit, at the end. Firmed up again, as Virgil Tracy clasped his shoulder.

"We'll go get 'em, Lieutenant. In the meantime, I'm gonna need you to organize these folks into groups of twenty to twenty-five. Get them up that ladder, and into the diving bell, one batch at a time. Max can handle evacuation up to our Bird, with your assistance."

Vickers nodded eagerly.

"Yes, Sir. I'm on it," he said, relieved to be doing something other than just keeping everyone calm.

Virgil gave his shoulder a brief, friendly shake. Then, he and Captain Taylor started for the first of those tightly-sealed floodgates. As John liked to put it: _Just another day at the office._

But, elsewhere, deep in the cold, groaning bowels of Pacifica City, Brendan Ming was not on board with what he later called "needless destruction". _He,_ with Dr. Kate Hodnett, Jack Hewitt, and the rest of the city's command team, had at last been rescued; cut out of their freezing, airless tomb by John Tracy, Parker, and Lady Penelope. A few of them had to be resuscitated, and none were in very good shape. Ming came up snarling.

"Those… emergency hatches," he gasped, upon regaining full consciousness, "are Ming property. Cost… over a million credits… apiece! Be… assured that International… Rescue will… most certainly pay…for… each and _every_ one!"

Nice. John glanced over at Parker, who muttered,

"Too late t' pop 'im back h-in there, and pretend like we just 'adn't seen 'im?"

"Afraid so," said the astronaut, a bit ruefully. "But that's okay… I'll file a counter-suit for poor safety practice and, um… severe mental strain. My laser cufflink's almost out of power, and that's causing heartbreak and undue stress." Not for nothing had he sat through Rigby's dense, droning legal talk.

Parker grinned, clutched at his own back suddenly, and then reeled against a frost-rimed bulkhead, crying out,

"Cor blimey! Me back! Think h-I've injured meself, with all o' this bloody climbin' and scramblin' about!"

The Ming Hotels executive grew pale and tense. He would have said something further, had Penny not stepped in. Placing a restraining hand upon John's chest, and a lightly soothing one on Ming's coat sleeve, she murmured,

"Come now, Gentlemen. We've better things to do than argue, surely. International Rescue is a publicly funded organization, and the GDF maintains a very large account from which to reimburse any damage resulting from their good-faith activities. All shall be presently set to rights… provided that we escape this place."

Eminently sensible. Nevertheless, Ming was not satisfied; tugging the creases out of his expensive suit-jacket, he muttered,

"The design... and safety protocols... of this resort are _not_ at fault. Any damages… any and all loss of life… may be laid at the feet of that charlatan Tycho Reeves and his allies, International Rescue. _That_ is my final word on the matter, Miss Ward."

Beneath her right hand, Penny felt John's muscles bunch. Not normally a fighter, the astronaut had a quite savage temper when he did… so to speak… break loose. Only, they could not afford such a contretemps, now. Not with so far to go, and so many more people to reach.

"No, dear," Pen murmured, adding, "Let us provide him with no further ammunition."

Anything might have happened, then, had not His Majesty, the right royal King Denys, looked about himself and said,

"Hummm… taken rather a fancy to the place, actually. And, as it is clearly derelict, and thus falls under the WorldGov salvage laws, I claim Pacifica City for the Crown. Mine. All of it. And you, my good man…" he turned to face the still-seething Brendan Ming, "…are sacked. Services no longer required. Toddle off, now. There's a good fellow."

Perhaps Denys could actually do all that. Possibly not, with the bridge crew standing right there. But, the action drew fervent applause from the station's scientists, who'd only ever wanted to research that trench, and count giant sharks.

Stifling a giggle, Penny took John's hand and said,

"Shall we proceed with His Majesty's property walk? No doubt, he has many more subjects to greet."

"Roight this way, Your 'Ighness," said Parker, sketching a deep and flowery bow. Struck the refugees as hilarious, at the time. But IR had made a new enemy. One whose chief power was money and utter, implacable hate.

Bad enough, but then, the city began to shift once more; leaving those trapped in darkness with nothing to do but clutch one another and try not to scream. Would help ever arrive, they wondered? And, if not, could they manage to rescue themselves?


	47. Chapter 47

Many thanks, my friends. Nearly done. Bow Echo, Tikatu, Creative Girl, Thunderbird Shadow, Susan and HKP the M, hugs and gratitude! =) Freshly edited!

 **47**

 _Nijo Palace, Kyoto, Japan-_

For some reason, Captain Rigby did not fall as far, nor strike as hard, as he'd thought he would. Instead of shattering like a heroic egg all over the base of some deep, gloomy pit, he struck a few rotted beams… crashed through some fragile wood floors… and came up more or less smiling.

It was only then, when he'd shambled back onto his feet (after a moment or two of stunned blankness) that Wayne discovered Survivor's absence. Mostly because his back was sore… something wrong with the vertebrae… and it didn't immediately get better. Took awhile to heal up. Bad enough; but then, after examining both wrists in the light of his comm-unit, the Marine saw that Survivor wasn't just dormant. He'd left. For how long, Wayne couldn't guess.

This complicated his situation immensely. See, it was easy to be bold when you knew that, no matter what happened, you wouldn't be all-the-way-ticket-punched-final-call _dead._ Not forever. With Survivor along, he'd had insurance. Now… he just didn't know; which made the decision to keep moving, find kayo, the most courageous thing he'd done all day.

Wayne cleared his throat, widened that comm-unit glow, and had a swift look around. Found himself in a basement or cellar of some kind. Heavy on carved stonework and rusted metal, along with spears of decaying wood and green-glowing fungus. Your basic spooky dungeon, in other words.

He could hear and feel the movement of air, which meant there was maybe an opening, besides the one he'd crashed through to get there. No sound from Kayo, but possibly she was just lying low and playing it smart, until she found out for sure who… or what… had come calling.

"Miss Tracy…?" Wayne stage-whispered. For a moment longer, there was no sound but wind, and the faint patter of trickling sand. Then,

"Wayne? Captain Rigby, is that you?"

Tanusha Tracy, from off to his left a ways. Turning in that direction (and shutting off the comm-lamp) he could make out the glow of her body heat, along with somebody else's. Someone crouched, with both arms wrapped around their knees and bowed head, looked like.

"It's me," he admitted, starting forward. "Just, uh… decided to drop in and say hi," he joked, nervously. Followed that heat-glow right to her, thanking the stars that his alien guest had left him a few little gifts. "Are you alright, Miss Tracy? Is your brother with you?"

"I'm… under control," she whispered, in a lost-seeming, stony sort of voice. "And Scott is alive, but I'll need your help getting him out of here, Captain."

Took Rigby about two minutes to work his way to Kayo's location; threading a labyrinth of fallen beams and tumbled masonry. His footsteps echoed oddly, he thought; the space sounding more like an open, metallic expanse than a rubble-strewn chamber. But then, his senses were a mess after Survivor's augmentation and sudden departure. Nerves got in the way, too, being totally honest.

Anyhow, he found Tanusha standing beside her huddled oldest brother, one slim hand pressed to the top of Scott's head, as though somehow keeping him calm.

"What's happened to him?" Wayne asked the girl, coming cautiously forward. "Concussion? Shock?" And then, because these things happened, even to fit, younger men, "seizure?"

Kayo shook her head, slightly. Lovely, lost and remote, she seemed beyond words, or tears. Just leaned into his embrace a little, forehead touching that printed yellow "RECRUIT" blazoned across his chest.

Wayne hugged her, though she wasn't crying. Just shaking with anguish. He found out _why,_ moments later.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In a home that wasn't quite right, in the bedroom he'd once shared with John-_

Sitting slouched on their study chair, facing his puzzled, red-haired brother, Scott shook his head. Pounding an arm of the seat for emphasis, he said,

"I'm not making this up, John… and I'm not crazy. I think. I'm just… something happened. I got into trouble, got captured, somehow. There were lots of questions, only I…. I don't think I answered them. Didn't tell them anything they wanted to know. And now, I'm _here…_ Wherever that is."

He'd thought that talking to John, getting his astronaut brother's take on the situation, would clear matters up. Hadn't so far, though. Maybe because this John was only as smart as Scott's own subconscious? A figment of wishful delirium? Only way to tell was to ask something completely original. Something that _he_ would not know, and John would.

Started by keeping it obvious, just in case he was facing an actor, in some kind of Scott-fooling play.

"Humor me, Pal… what'd you name your first pitcher's glove?"

John smiled a little, the expression looking remarkably like Mom's.

"Lacey," he said. "because, y'know, she's got laces."

Good answer. Not common knowledge, either. One more, as a baseline.

"Okay. Why'd you get cut from the Panthers, back in seventh grade?"

John reddened. Would have skipped answering, if he could have, but sensed Scott's urgency.

"Because Coach Shelton caught me out back of the equipment shed, with his daughter… only it was _her_ idea. And I'm sure as h*ll not getting pushed into that, again! It was sort of scary. I mean, not… y'know…" he amended hurriedly. But Scott shook his head.

"S'okay, John. I get it, and I'm not trying to make fun of you. Just wanted some answers. Had to be sure who I'm talking to. So, uh… What's your least favourite language, and why?"

Caught by surprise, the red head considered. They would have to go down to chores and supper, soon, but he pondered a bit before saying,

"Greek. Don't ask me why… but it just sounds weird. Too much _'oi',_ if that makes any sense."

Scott chuckled.

"No, it doesn't, but I'll take your word for it. So… you're real. Do you believe I'm not crazy, John? That I'm not just making this up?"

His younger brother puffed out a long, gusty sigh.

"Don't know why you _would._ Not with academy entrance exams coming up. But… you were fine, this morning. Worst thing on your mind, then, was calculus and how to afford a used car. Why would you suddenly claim to be somebody else?"

"Not someone else," Scott protested. "Just older, with a different past."

Downstairs, they could hear Virgil come banging in through the back door, with Gordon and Alan.

"We're _hooooooome!"_ the boys chorused in unison, stampeding for the fridge. Scott and John both stood up, because it didn't do to keep Granddad waiting.

"Talk more, after dinner?" Asked Scott, starting for the door. John nodded, briefly.

"Sure, if you like; but we've both got an early day ahead of us, tomorrow, so it's gonna have to be quick," his younger brother temporized. "You can tell me all about our giant battle robots, amazing super-powers, or alien space-babes, Scott. Just, y'know… _summarize."_

The pilot glanced back at John as they clattered downstairs. _Hunh._ Not "rescue craft". Not once had John mentioned Birds, or space stations. Not even Mars or the Moon. Evidence, maybe, that his brother was actually genuine, just very much younger? He sure hoped so, because more than anything else right now, Scott Tracy needed a friend… and a way out.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Very far off, at the distant Manhattan Dead Zone-_

With a passenger apiece, having received John's coded signal, Gordon and Alan broke for home. Thunderbird 3 did so openly, having never _quite_ crossed that border. Buddy Pendergast was impatient, needing to embrace his wife and clasp Bluey's hand before he'd accept that all had, indeed, come right.

Thunderbird 4 was a great deal more cautious about departing "Lake Manhattan". For one thing, she was overloaded, with Ellie Pendergast and Charlie aboard. For another, Gordon 'd had to cut power and drift along with the rest of the junk, past the dead zone's border security sensors.

On the bright side, there was so much debris in that turbulent water… so many crashing trains and spiraling ground cars… that one small, darkened sub didn't trigger any alarms. Cody Beech might've been working for them, at that point, because it sure seemed like every functional camera wound up getting smashed by tumbling wreckage, just as Thunderbird 4 drifted past. No more brushes with giant marine reptiles, at least. With her shields down and power out, at neutral buoyancy, their battered small sub wouldn't have stood a snowflake's chance at a nuclear test site.

Had to run dark and silent. No talking, no moving, no using the sub's little bathroom. Not until well past that last chain of sensors, and into a deep, fast-moving current. Even then, they didn't switch their transponder on, because Thunderbird 4 was supposed to be all the h*ll away, on the other side of the planet. Needed pickup in a quick, fast hurry… but not until Virge wrapped things up in Pacifica City.

Till then, it was vegetable crunch snacks, off-key singalongs, and endless games of "I Spy" through the cockpit window. On the whole, one of Gordon Tracy's most memorable bonding experiences.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Pacifica City, very far down and away-_

The answer was "yes, they could". Having reached the command center, with power available from various cobbled-together multi-tools, laser cuff-links, those lifting shoes, and His Majesty's bullet-proof defense harness, they had what they needed to access and reset the system.

Brendan Ming stubbornly refused to share proprietary Ming Hotels' security codes, _or_ provide a retinal scan, but that didn't matter. Not with John Tracy along. If there was a computer system that John couldn't crack, he'd never encountered it yet.

Got the bridge lit back up using his exopod's power cell, then hacked in with Kate Hodnett's biometrics, and his own IR override. Five minutes, tops, till he had lights and power back on, then unlocked all the hatches and floodgates.

Some of the guests and crew then got out on their own, taking escape pods or hot-wiring some of those docked research and pleasure craft. More had to be rescued by Virgil and Lee, having been trapped for too long, with too little oxygen. Even so, that final landslide would have claimed hundreds of victims, for there just wasn't time enough to get everyone out. Not with just local transport and one busy diving bell.

Then, someone else arrived, whooping like a boy, at the head of a largish fleet of family yachts and borrowed submarines.

"What ho!" called out young, feckless Clarence (heir to all that really mattered in Britain). "Fling wide your gates, oh Pacifica City, for the lads have arrived… _and_ the odd lass, but that's alright, we don't mind 'em!"

He'd brought along as many of his set as owned (or might pinch) private submarines, having promised the fun of crashing Penelope's stuffy aid-luncheon. That they ended up taking on passengers made it all that much more exciting, for now they could claim to be heroes, as well as gate-crashers.

Clarence himself rescued Bertie, along with five dogs, three cats and an unperturbed parasaurolophus. Got a kiss from his sister when she… with John Tracy, Parker and His Royal Majesty… emerged from a cramped little side passage.

"Pester!" she laughed, speeding forward to take Sherbert (who'd begun squirming and yipping quite madly). "Whatever are you _doing_ here, dearest?"

He was most inappropriately dressed for a rescue, sporting a full morning coat and trousers, top hat and cane. Had his light brown hair slicked back, as well, even donning brilliant white spats.

"Why… emerging from darkness to enliven that dead bore of a 'fling' you've put on, of course! Whatever should you do for excitement, without me, Pee-Dee?"

Her younger brother peered at her over his wire-framed spectacles, blue eyes at once merry and earnest. One of his best mates… Ellsworth Porter-Renfrew… had harnessed (and was attempting to ride) Penny's dinosaur, who kept simply turning around on him. She ought to have been quite cross at these antics, but instead simply laughed.

"You _are_ the most extraordinary pest!" she declared, fondly, conducting Clarence to King Denys. "Sir, my brother has arrived… late, I fear… for our little soiree. As we shall be leaving, presently, would you care to depart on the Creighton-Ward undersea yacht? Most of the docked craft have departed, it seems." Including the royal conveyance.

Denys smiled. Despite the urging of his remaining guards, and Lady Penelope, he'd not moved to the boats. Not yet.

"No, indeed, Good My Lady," he said to the beautiful operative. "I shall leave these premises last of all… and I find myself quite yearning to ride in Thunderbird 2."

"Naturally," said Virgil, who'd just loped up to shake John's hand, embrace Penny, and salute the King. Didn't bow, as he was American. "And, if you'll follow me, Sir, I'll get you a seat on the only Bird that matters."

Denys frowned, slightly.

"I had rather wait until all of my endangered subjects are safely away, Young Tracy. It is a sovereign's duty to care for their people, and I should like to supervise the evacuation proceedings."

Sure. Why not? Not like Pacifica City was rocked with tremors, about to slide into a trench, or anything. Virgil glanced over at John, who merely shrugged. After all, he _was_ the King. You couldn't just clap him in restraints (like Brendan Ming) and then drag him off, shouting, to safety. Also, Virgil and John were needed, below. Lee couldn't get to everyone, all by himself. Not in time to do any good.

"Sir… I can't force you," the pilot admitted, dark eyes grim and perplexed. "But you're a role model. If you just stand around out here, looking relaxed, no one else 'll go, either. If the King leaves, they'll know things are serious."

Grimacing, Denys saw reason, and inclined his head.

"Very well, Mister Tracy. A role model and shepherd I shall be… but I still desire a ride in Thunderbird 2."

"You got it, Sir," Virgil promised. "Up in the cockpit, if you like."

"Oh, I say!" Clarence cut in, brightly. "Might I go, as well? Dear Pee-Dee is quite able to manage the hoary Creighton-Ward bark, and I should be _most_ shattered to have come all this way, at great personal expense, only to leave in the ordinary fashion. _Do_ say you've room in Thunderbird 2, up front! As I shall doubtless be disinherited again, for at least a fortnight, the journey will solace my loss."

The young nobleman gazed at Virgil so hopefully, with such open longing and worship, that the pilot grudgingly caved.

"Fine. You, too. But that's it!" he announced. "No more civilian passengers on the flight deck! Bottom line. Now, let's get these people moving. And, Sir, feel free to snap orders, as needed."

At last, even those much-delayed GDF rescue subs showed up, helping every last person… and critter… to escape from there safely.

The trench collapsed utterly, about ten minutes after the diving bell's final trip. With a noise like the divine ancestor of all landslides, half a mile of rock-and-mud cliff-face plunged away into darkness, taking the city right along with it. The structure heaved and twisted; dome cracking, power failing, lights exploding as they met cold, rushing seawater. Then, with a tremendous roar, Pacifica City vanished over the edge.

John and Penny watched it go, from the safety of _HMS Honour._ Despite Clarence's assertion, it was John who piloted that sleek and luxurious submarine yacht. Shaking his head, he growled,

"Never again. Next time you invite me to one of your d*mn parties, Penny…"

"I know, dear," she smiled, kissing Bertie's squashed, upturned face. "The answer is 'no'. It always is." And he always went, anyhow. Changing the subject, Lady Penelope stretched a bit, saying lightly,

"I shall be ever so glad to change into fresher clothing and then see Scott, once more. Shall he be awaiting us, in Japan?"

John hesitated, because (like Virgil and Lee) he'd been in touch with Kayo. Didn't know how to break some had-to-be-wrong _really_ bad news, but…

"He's, um… well… They've taken Scott to the same hospital as Dr. Reeves," John hedged, there on that fancy, gilt-and-glass submarine bridge deck.

"A hospital?" Penny whispered, all at once still and pale. Turning in her soft leather seat, she asked, "Whatever for? Would not Tracy Island's infirmary prove a far better choice?"

John looked away, then back again. Took a deep breath and explained it all in halting and awkward terms, as they sped along through a lightening sea. Later, friends and family said that she'd taken the news very calmly. Yeah. They hadn't been there, when Pen found out what had happened to Scott.


	48. Chapter 48

Hi, guys. Almost time to return to work. Feel like I'm pretty close to the end of this one, but I'm not sure. Depends on a couple of upcoming scenes, I guess. Anyhow, thank you for reading and reviewing. It's been eventful, and I appreciate all the comments and insight. Tikatu, Thunderbird Shadow, Susan, Creative Girl, Akimakel and Bow Echo, hugs!

 **48**

 _Elsewhere, though nearer than any suspected-_

The alert flashed outward: _Insertion successful. Infiltration initiated._ And, while some demanded immediate seizure, more took the long view. Two kanni had been set into motion. Both showed discernable progress. Cultivation and watchfulness had always worked, and always would. Water on stone. Wind over sand. Time against mountain. In the end, it was never the rock that prevailed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, some hours later-_

Virgil Tracy found himself with an awful lot to do. Deliberately. The news about Scott… that he'd been arrested and brain-scraped (though WorldGov denied it), was too much to deal with. Too painful to handle. Like… like accidentally swallowing an unchewed ice shard that wouldn't melt, and wouldn't go down. Just hung there and stabbed, from inside.

So, he kept himself busy, instead. Tried not to think very much, until someone managed to wring a few solid answers from the GDF computer files. Ordinarily, John or Brains would have been right on it, but the one was out in Kyoto, while the other had something going on back home with his wife, and… dunno… Virgil hadn't kept up with the news. Actively avoided it, in fact. Had a full docket, already.

The big, silver prototype held far more people than Thunderbird 2 could take off her hands all at once, even with the GDF and Pen's loopy brother pitching in. Best case scenario, packed to the gills, she might could hold ninety. A hundred more, if they stuffed people into the emptied pod, as well.

Only, Virgil had to get back aboard, first. Couldn't perform another in-flight switch-up, either, because GDF regulations prohibited transfer of flight personnel while carrying civilian passengers, blah, blah, blah.

Bottom line, he'd had to ride with Lee to Japan, wait for Josh to remote-fly his Bird over, and _then_ reclaim the giant green cargo-lifter. Most of their refugee passengers were put ashore in Yokosuka, but not the king and young Clarence. Those two got a ride home, in style.

Virgil hated himself for not being able to stay in Japan and see Scott, only… only there was not a thing he could do to help out. Not really. Sickbed comfort was not in his skill set, which tended to major in music, engines and rescue gear.

Also: he'd promised folks a ride back to Great Britain, Gordon was going to need pickup, and, well… he wasn't sure he could face his brother's empty shell. Not yet. Anyhow, Uncle Lee was headed there. Plus Penny, John, Kayo and Rigby… _D*mn_ Rigby! He belonged to the GDF, which was part of WorldGov, who'd probably done that sh*t to Scott, no matter _how_ Shaw denied it. No… he very much did not need to see Wayne Goddam Rigby, just then. Maybe, not ever. Too hurt, too savagely angry to think straight. Just took refuge in flight, and made nice for his VIP passengers.

The king asked a great many questions, possibly to keep him occupied. Virgil let Denys _and_ Clarence have a go at flying his big girl (very high up, with nothing around, and ready to snatch back that throttle and yoke the instant they did something wrong). Nothing like a little hair-raising tension to beat back personal nightmare, huh?

He even provided an inflight meal of soda, snacks and ham sandwiches. They shared a big open bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps, drank straight from the bottle, and made their own sandwiches, warmed on the instrument panel. Surprisingly enough, His Majesty was good at all three of those things. Not a bad pilot, either, for a guy who'd last touched flight controls as a dashing young prince.

"One might quite easily become accustomed to this," said the king, all bright eyes and smile-lines. Clearly, he'd gotten the bug, _hard._

Virgil managed an answering smile, as he sat in that rumbling cockpit, babysitting a pair of celebrity guests (and bodyguards, who rode in the back). Below them, the ocean looked like textured blue paint, touched here and there with lacy gold clouds.

"It isn't all sunsets and picnics, Sir," he told the king. "sometimes, the weather's bad, you're low on fuel…" (Your brother's a broken and mindless shell, without even WorldGov new-life programming to sustain him.) "…or someone just up and attacks."

"You've weapons, of course?" cut in Clarence, being halfway serious. "I should think that a vessel of such importance and rondure... Such, erm… generous girth…"

"Calling her fat?" challenged Virgil, smiling a little.

Clarence struck a heroic pose (which took some doing, strapped to a seat, as he was).

"My good sir! Not a bit of it! She is amply proportioned, rather, as an operatic diva, performing the singular role of lead Valkyrie in _'Ring of Union'…"_

 _"Ring of the Nibelungs,"_ Virgil muttered under his breath, adding, "Richard Wagner. Great opera, hard on the bladder." Because, you know, it was long.

Something like a look of warning crossed the younger man's normally vapid, cheery face, at that. His blue eyes flicked toward King Denys, so swiftly that Virgil might have imagined it.

Okay, yeah; pre-conflict saga, outlawed language, outmoded concepts. Modern Valkyries rewarded peace and cooperation. They did _not_ harvest the bold and courageous dead. But, if His Majesty caught Virgil's dangerous slip, he ignored it, and kept right on flying that Bird. Helluva guy, actually.

"She's got some adaptable lasers, the sonic blaster and a shock-hull feature, if it comes to defense," said Virgil, going back to the question. "Not weapons, really. IR's never been about fighting. Just…"

"At times, you've no choice?" supplied grey-haired King Denys, quietly.

Virgil nodded, sick to his big, broken heart.

"Yes, Sir. Sometimes, we get backed into a corner, and all we can do is come out swinging. You'd be surprised how many people take exception to just being rescued."

Clarence had been looking around at the high-tech cockpit and flashing instruments. Now, returning his gaze to Virgil, the handsome young nobleman said,

"Quite dangerous, I should think, this life you lead? And exhausting, as well?"

Once again, Virgil Tracy replied with a nod.

"Yeah, it is," he admitted bluntly.

"And yet, day after day, call after blasted distress call, you charge forth to rescue us," said Clarence, wonderingly. "Hardly deserve it, do we? Foolish and stubborn as we oft times are?"

Virgil shrugged his broad shoulders.

"It's what we do," he said, simply. "Dad had an idea… Brains brought it to life. We, my brothers and I, make it happen. One flight, one rescue, one risk at a time."

Clarence trailed a slim hand across the control panel; right then and there falling in love with engine noise, vibration, chattering instrumentation and roaring power.

"Bit addictive, I suspect," he mused, adding, "No marvel at all that Pee-Dee's so taken with you lot. Pity International Rescue isn't comprised of lovely young women. One might almost be moved to sign on. There is your sister, of course... Quite attractive, in her fashion, but rather… erm… frightening."

Virgil chuckled, running a big hand across the wilting spikes in his dark hair. (Rescue proof, twenty-four-hour gel; now _there_ was a Brains-worthy invention.)

"She'd eat you for lunch, Lord Clarence," the pilot agreed. "And she _hates_ polite society. Kind of like John, only worse, because no one keeps forcing her out." Then, changing the subject, "Why do you call her Pee-Dee? Penny, I mean."

Clarence blinked at him like a spectacled, mild-mannered owl.

"Ah. Yes. Mum's doing, actually. She _will_ continually address the Gilded One as 'Penelope Darling'. One's simply shortened the moniker to Pee-Dee, for convenience's sake."

Made sense, Virgil supposed; though nicknames in his family had always come from Grandma… or Uncle Lee, who just got their names wrong, every d*mn time. By now, the big pilot was so accustomed to "Vic", that he barely noticed the difference.

The rest of the trip passed pleasantly enough, ending in a brief touchdown on the ornate, restored grounds of Kensington Palace, where he dropped off his happy, bone-weary passengers. All of them… even the guards… shook his hand. Virgil Tracy wasn't his father, but just then, he'd been more than enough.

Wasn't… didn't _want to be…_ finished. Not with Gordon across the Atlantic, lying low and waiting for pickup. After that, well, there had to be something else he could do. Anything at all, rather than focus on what had happened to Scott.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Kyoto, Japan, at the Yokosuka Navy Town Hospital-_

Lady Penelope fared little better; trapped in a lie of her own making, and forced to perform her public role with John Tracy. In her artfully crafted fund-raising campaigns, you see, John was her mysterious, heroic paramour. A handsome son of the Colonel who'd fallen so hard for her wit, charm and sophistication, that he always turned up to defend her.

For publicity reasons, they were "in love". And now, with Scott's mind an empty, ransacked ruin, Penny was unable to simply rush to his side. She was caught in the web she'd woven, almost delirious with guilt and anxiety.

John… must have learnt more than she'd suspected. His deportment was impeccable, as he drew Penny through crowds of reporters and media drones, answering questions and helping her to pose for interminable pictures. Hid her tears with strategic embraces, even. Only inside the hospital, within Scott's luxurious private suite, did her red-haired young friend drop his act.

Kayo, Lee Taylor and Captain Rigby were already present, standing about the airy blue antechamber to Scott's personal treatment room. They were many stories up, with secure, one-way windows and anti-eavesdropping tech in place. It was a pleasant setting for horrid news, with a light blue, figured carpet, impressionist artworks adorning the walls, and gentle music muting the hospital's usual noise.

Penny released John's hand once the outer door shut behind them. Still wearing his white tuxedo jacket over that slashed pink gown, the young noblewoman stepped hesitantly forward. Looked from one grim face to another, before crossing the room to embrace Kayo, who appeared to be in shock. Couldn't quite bring herself to ask the question. Didn't have to.

"He's fine, physically," Kay whispered, not meeting anyone's gaze. "A little dehydrated and hungry, they said. Still able to talk and take care of himself. Just… no memories. Nothing. I guess that he's rather scared, right now. I would be… but seeing us hasn't brought anything back. It's like he was just born, almost. Or, like he just died."

Tears slipped from her large green eyes; silent and unacknowledged. John came to his sister, then. Not normally a demonstrative young man, he nevertheless enfolded her in a long, tight embrace. She was quite stiff at first, Penny noticed.

"Who did it?" John asked, deliberately not looking at Captain Rigby.

Their uncle, Lee Taylor, set down a beer and strode over.

"Hard ta say," he answered. "Looks like Unity Commission work on the surface… only, _they_ allus leaves a new-life personality. Usually with a name from some old-timey book or movie. Spencer ain't got none of that, an' sumthin' don't hardly feel right."

Like Kayo and Captain Rigby, Lee Taylor was still in his rumpled and work-stained uniform. His shadowed, unshaven face seemed tired and sad… but not beaten.

John gave Kay another brief squeeze, then turned to confront the silent blond Marine, who'd been standing there, awkward and unhappy, the whole time. Took a step forward, all at once as dangerous and single-minded a predator as Penny had ever seen.

 _"Who did it?"_ John demanded, with an edge to his voice that promised, rather than threatened.

Penelope attempted to intercede, reaching up to place a calming hand on his tense, rock-like shoulder. John shook her off. Across the room, Rigby blanched, but did not back down.

"I don't know," he said. "Believe me, Mr. Tracy, if I had any clue, I'd…"

"You're one of them. The GDF. You were with him. _What the h*ll happened?!"_

John looked ready to spring. As though he wanted nothing more than to tear the Marine limb from limb. Captain Taylor stepped between them first, however.

"Jase," he snapped, "simmer down. Bein' present at th' scene don't prove nuthin', an' we got body-cam feed whut shows Wyatt, here, clear acrost th' transmission chamber, tryna save Doc Richey. Plus, well…" turning his head slightly, whilst keeping those stern, blue-grey eyes fixed upon John's ocean-green ones, the older man ordered, "Tell 'im, Wyatt."

Captain Rigby cleared his throat and nodded once, saying,

"I've, um… quit. The GDF, that is. Not working for them, anymore. Not till I find out for sure that they weren't involved." A muscle twitched in his right cheek as he went on, very quietly, "I've resigned my commission in the Corps."

John inhaled sharply. Would have said God-knows-what. Only then, the door to Scott's treatment room swung open.


	49. Chapter 49

Short, but a development that suddenly occurred to me after last chapter. You've probably thought the same thing. Please excuse the embarrassing shortness.

 **49**

 _GDS_ _Union Jack_ _, the captain's quarters, out in the open south seas-_

Emma Kraft surveyed the news feed and pop-chat network for just a few minutes longer. Then, frowning, the young officer sat back in her beat-up, comfortable grey chair. _Weird,_ she thought, rubbing tired green eyes.

International Rescue had just wrapped up a major operation. Ordinarily, one or all of the big three… Scott, John or her Virgil… would have sat still for a short, good-natured interview with the press, explaining how they'd pulled it off, and what viewers could do to avoid such hazards, themselves.

Not this time, though. Kat Cavanaugh and her devious ilk waited in vain for contact from anyone official, because Taz was still flying, John had gone straight to Japan with Her Stuffyship, and Scott was… Well, rumours abounded, all of them bad.

Not the sole reason for Emma's concern, however. _'Celebrity Now!'_ had just featured a gushing, thirty-minute video of Lady Penelope and her handsome, heroic "date", John Tracy. There'd been numerous shots of the couple's arrival, their fancy-dress luncheon and build-up to the world's first human transmission. _That_ hadn't come off as planned, but the pop news set didn't care. Not when the glitterati were present in force. Emergencies, like romance, just added spice.

Emma drummed her fingers on the desk for a moment or two. Sat there thinking, surrounded by the comforting rumble and hum of a vessel at sea. Kraft was a forthright sort. She tended to _act_ rather than talk, and if Taz had carried on that way with his so-called 'date', she'd have relieved him of two of his three most precious possessions… the hard way. Still, O'Bannon was a big girl. A fellow GDF officer, and a friend. The best Emma had, next to Virgil.

Glancing around her small, spartan cabin to be sure that ship's comms were off, and the hatch closed, Emma switched channels, then typed in a memorized number. Call went through in just a few seconds, despite the great distance.

"Hello?" she heard, along with the noises you got from a station as old and immense as Global-1.

"Hey, Ree… it's me. You okay?"

At the line's other end, no doubt floating around in her own private quarters, Captain O'Bannon sighed.

"It's an act," she explained, sounding edgy. "Something Penelope thought up to increase publicity and attendance for those dumb charity events she likes to put on. Doesn't mean anything. Tracy warned me ahead of time."

But, judging from the tone of her voice, Ree didn't much like it. Said Emma,

"Okay, just checking, because I was going to offer to find us a couple of rusty knives, a tub of ice cream and a baseball bat."

O'Bannon laughed.

"Thanks for that, Em. If I thought there was anything going on, I'd take you up on it… but I think there's a different, worse problem. Have you heard anything from Virgil?"

Kraft shook her head, sending a loose strand of brownish-blonde hair floating into her face. Elbows on desk, she puffed it away with a pursed-lip breath, but the strand kept falling back down, again.

"Just a quick _'I'm okay'_ buzz. Why?" She and Taz had set up a system, meant to keep her from worrying too much, when the news feeds turned ghoulish.

"Scuttlebutt says Boss-man's in the hospital," Ridley told her, sounding concerned.

"Scott? _Why?_ What happened?" Generally, the Tracys avoided hospitals like super-flu and weaponised rabies, combined.

"Don't know, Em, but it isn't good. John sent me an A-OK chirp awhile back… but he's been pretty busy, since."

That was for sure… and Ree was a saint. Kraft would've killed him. _Creatively_.

"Tell you what: I'll call Taz up and pry loose some answers. See if there's anything we can do to help. You got any leave coming up?"

Said O'Bannon,

"Uh… hang on… lemme check… yep. Sure do. Ten days. Why? Got something in mind?"

Emma nodded firmly, ready to mold fate like taffy.

"You better believe it, Chica. I think it's time we paid the boys another visit. Sometimes, outsiders see things that family might miss, y'know? And… I've got a bad feeling, Ree, like Taz needs me. You on board?"

With a little _'duh!'_ snort, Ridley said,

"Time and place, Em. I'll be there."

Because a best friend had your back; always and ever, no matter what.


	50. Chapter 50

Well, it's back to work for me, tomorrow. Physics and chemistry are calling, once more! Been a fun two weeks, though. Have to do it again, sometime. Thanks so much for coming along. Will straightaway answer reviews, my friends. =) Edited!

 **50**

 _Antarctica, deep inside a well-hidden, Ross Island stronghold-_

Nikorr Kyrano had betaken himself to the "conference chamber", that place from which he could meet with any of his peers… or all of them, provided that they chose to respond. Roughly circular, carved from the living stone of an active volcano, the chamber held a central platform surrounded by large, faintly shimmering crystals. One of these held very little energy, now, because the Dos Santos' were grown few and quite wary. The rest varied in brightness, with the Kane and Kyrano stones shining clearest of all. Gold for Kane, green for Kyrano.

So much for surroundings. He had not come here to make an announcement. Rather, he'd been called upon. It was possible (if rude) to ignore such a summons, but Niko chose to heed it, given the situation.

He'd left his quarters, walked and lifted (Kane technology) a quarter of a mile, then dismissed his guards at the threshold. Wanted no witnesses, for what he intended, next. Now, touching that red-gleaming crystal, he said,

"Speak."

The platform's center formed a tall, misty cylinder which presently altered to show him a face and form in constant flux.

"Lord Hiro," Nikorr greeted the caller, making a very slight bow. "You have her?"

"I do," said the other, in a voice that held more feral growl than humanity. Most Hiros clung tightest of all to the form of their totem, the great mountain bear. "And that one will be delivered, per agreement… provided you are able to control and…" those sliding, melting features grimaced slightly, hating the next word's taste, _"re-educate_ it."

The Kyrano folded both arms across his broad chest, setting many tiny crystalline spiders… his badges of rank… to skittering for cover on shoulders and back.

"I am able," he said. "Her power is considerable, but she lacks experience and training. You have my word, Lord Hiro, that Tanusha will not leave this stronghold, until she's been fully reclaimed."

Hiro made a noise between grunt and rumble, his features still shifting through all of his forms like a fast-shuffled deck of cards. Very unstable, the Hiros; especially those of high rank. Only their young could hold a form for very long, without deep concentration.

"The polluted have caged that one for many years, psion. It is now quite deeply warped."

Nikorr inhaled sharply, forcing calm self-control. He did not like being told what he already knew, no matter how old or honoured the messenger.

"I am aware of this, Lord Hiro, and I am well prepared to deal with the matter. And you? Are your kanni equal to the task of duping those who have raised Tanusha and that other?" ("Other", because he couldn't be troubled to recall the captured Tracy's given name. Honestly, they were all the same to him; repugnant.)

Another assenting grunt came from Hiro, who was relaxing back into his bear-form, making speech more difficult. The bear shape warred with what might have been his original; that of a pale, wisp-bearded man with light eyes and long, red-brown hair.

"They shall succeed, psion, for the alternative is dissolution; a return to the well of souls from which spring all. The brain-scrape pretense, while distasteful, was well-advised. They will not expect very much of their injured member, and now the one who might have detected this switch… your young breeder… has been taken, as well."

The Hiros, having no fixed shape or gender, did not refer to others in the usual way. Niko was becoming accustomed to this quirk. Inclining his head very slightly, he acknowledged the compliment.

"I have had time to study Tanusha, and… through her… the Tracys. They will fall into line, Lord Hiro, or be destroyed. It matters not which. Next, I intend to bring down their ally, the "Mechanic", and that Vermin world government. As Tracy hinted, it is past time we emerged from the shadows. _This_ is step one. Send the girl. Infiltrate Tracy Island, and prepare more kanni. One never knows whom you might encounter, alone and unguarded."

Hiro responded with a low, snuffling growl, nodding his heavy bear's head by way of assent. Least human of all the Families, the shape-changers were also the most subtly, darkly powerful. Good allies, terrible foes. Able to imitate anyone. Any _thing_ , almost; having trouble only with cyborg shapes… But the Tracys knew nothing of that, and soon, one by one, they would fall.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 4, rising from a deep and chilly Atlantic current-_

His transponder was still off, because Gordon Tracy did not feel like explaining how he'd gotten from Pacifica City to the Northwestern Territories, in less than an eyeblink. After all, what Colonel Casey didn't know, wouldn't hurt her… in theory.

Virgil was on his way in Thunderbird 2, though, angling for a superfast, drop-and-grab magnetic pickup. Body cams rebelliously off, the two brothers coordinated their meeting by wrist-comm, leaving Dad to smooth down the oversight committee... if he could

Ascending through cold, dense water, Gordon glanced over at the passenger seat. Ellie Pendergast was fast asleep, blonde head flung back, mouth slightly open, smiling a little. Charlie lay curled up against her, back in his three-year-old mode and clutching Scruff (who waved a velvet paw at the aquanaut, not needing rest). They looked… peaceful. Relaxed. Like two people (and one biodroid) who knew that all was right with the world.

Gordon blinked away sleep. Debated taking another alertness tab, but decided against it. Too many of _those_ gave him headaches. Unwrapped another celery crunch bar, instead, then forgot to eat it.

Anyhow, Virgil was on-track for their rendezvous in about an hour. One more hour. _Then,_ hopefully, he'd be able to take a nap. Or, y'know… fly 2 awhile, so Virgil could rest. They could take turns, maybe, with the giant green cargo-lifter placed on autopilot for home.

Gordon had his helmet on, for a couple of reasons. One, the heads-up display provided useful data about time and distance to pick up. Two, its small computer monitored his eye and head movements, providing a beep and slight 'zap', when he looked like nodding off, again. Just… _d*mn,_ he was exhausted. If Caleb wanted to try handling the next few missions, that was A-OK with Gordon, who needed to curl up in bed for a couple of days.

Looking at Charlie and Ellie, again, he thought… y'know…. That the little guy could use a mommy, too. Something about females… they just made everything better. Buddy Pendergast was a lucky man, Gordon figured. One who'd found the woman that made him whole. Was there anyone out there like that for _him,_ the aquanaut wondered? Could his attraction to Zara be the real thing?

The sandy-blond swimmer's thoughts drifted here and there, twice more earning him "wake-the-h*ll-up" zaps. Then, finally, his wrist-comm chimed and he heard Virgil's deep, friendly voice saying,

"Hey, Kiddo… ready to get the h*ll outta Dodge?"

Gordon stretched, patted back a jaw-cracking yawn, and then grinned at his brother's projected image.

"Oh, I dunno. Kinda having a good time, down here. Watching the sea-life, flirting with mermaids… y'know, the usual Gordon Tracy fun-fest."

Virgil shook his head, not seeming as relaxed as normal.

"Yeah, well… I hate to cut in on all that cross-species romance, Fish-stick, but we're needed back home. Something's come up. Tell you more about it when you're back inside."

Gordon straightened right up, and gave his brother a nod.

"F.A.B.," he said, watching the blinking dot that represented Thunderbird 2 slow down, line up, and match speeds.

"Hey," Gordon called out, one hazel eye on his instrument panel. Reached over to give Ellie and Chip a quick shake. "Rise 'n shine, you two. The bus has arrived."

Ellie woke smiling and blinking, but Charlie just whined a little; burying his sleepy head in the crook of her shoulder and neck.

"Chip," Gordon insisted, reaching over once more. Only, Ellie prevented him.

"It's aces, Luv. No worries. Let 'im sleep. Pure knackered 'ee is, poor little joey." Arms wrapped snugly around the small boy, Ellie nuzzled the top of his head, just inhaling the sweet smell of child.

"Never thought I'd be wantin' one o' these," she whispered, blinking back sudden tears. "Too busy."

Charlie shifted and mumbled in her grip, not quite waking up. Very gently, Ellie kissed the boy's cheek, soothing a string of bleary excuses.

"I din' mean to..! I was only tryna..."

"Shhh... shh... there, now." And then, looking at Gordon, again, "'Pears I might 'ave t' 'ave a talk with ol' Buddy," she laughed softly. "'Oo knows… addin' a tyke t' th' cast might even boost our ratings."

Gordon smiled at her.

"D*mn," he marveled. "They're contagious!"

Overhead, through a wavering layer of seawater, he spotted the swooping shadow of Thunderbird 2.

"Hang on tight," he instructed his passengers. "Emergency grabs can get kinda rough."

"I've got 'im," Ellie promised, smiling back with pure, innocent fun. "No worries, Luv. You do th' drivin'. I'll keep Chipper safe as 'ouses."

Yep… Buddy Pendergast had found a greater treasure than _any_ elusive fill-in-the-blank, Gordon decided. He'd found the right woman.

About two minutes later, Thunderbird 4 was on the surface, using up the last of her fuel to bounce across wave tops and slice through that freezing wind. Then, with a deep, pulsing drone, 2's intense magnetic pickup-field snagged them, causing a colourful retinal lights show.

Next came a tremendous upward yank, sending stomachs thudding like rocks. The yellow sub was scooped from the water like an unwary fish, then hauled into Thunderbird 2's mighty force shield. The pod was halfway down, ramp open.

Gordon watched in mirror and viewscreen as Virgil retracted his force field, gently maneuvering Thunderbird 4 onto that waiting ramp. That was it for shield-work. Couldn't pull any tighter without crushing them all. Instead, Thunderbird 2 had to climb, _hard,_ causing the captured Sea Bird to slide down the canted ramp and into her "throat". Like a feeding cormorant, sort of.

Rough ride, braked by inertia dampeners and a couple of hardy Maxes, but at last… _finally_ … they'd made it home. Smiling, completely wrung out, Gordon Tracy fell asleep.


	51. Chapter 51

Hi, you guys. =) Sorry so late. Quite busy day, today, in a mostly good way. Many thanks for your kind reviews. Will respond, directly, now that I've carved out some breathing space.

 **51**

 _Just beyond Pancake Rocks, New Zealand, in a submerged, stolen aircraft-_

The new Hive Ship was progressing well. As Evan Kane… the Mechanic… strode through its shuddering cabins and lengthening passages, he made note of the changes. Ship was growing; evolving from humble cargo plane to self-aware, living machine. To accomplish this, the expanding core required his presence, together with a great many captured small vessels. Drones and robotic undersea miners, mostly, though a few careless tour boats had come into his reach, as well; crew and passengers released to float home or sink, as they pleased. Made no difference whatever to Kane.

Horatio's five grams of nanites had been put to work, too, and were branching throughout the stolen airplane, filling whatever role was needed. The Mechanic hadn't closed that wormhole in payment, but _somebody_ had, so Kane considered his end of the matter settled. Customer satisfied, end of story.

As he passed through those flexing and vibrating passages, the muscular cyborg paused from time to time. Here, soothing a tormented bulkhead. There, carving a broader opening in deck, hull or overhead. Hornet and scorpion mechs streamed past him in their hundreds, each bearing bits of scavenged metal and wire with which to feed and enlarge the Ship.

Meanwhile, the faint rumble and pounding of surf was communicated to him through hull, boot-soles and air. A good sound, reminding him of the wilder coasts of Scotland, where lay the Kane stronghold. He might no longer belong there, but still… the machine-man remembered. At this point, he was old and strong enough to go back and mount a challenge. Surely, the Mother of Cyborgs expected him to. Just… the time wasn't right. There were preparations to be made. A swarm to gather.

Those two half-vermin children… Ilya and Katrin… were off in the capacious bowels of his Hive Ship. Ilya practicing with a powerful new rifle, Katrin learning to walk with the aid of a patient Mantis-bot.

Perhaps he'd made a mistake in fetching them out of their slum. They were more than just minions by now, and attachment of any sort equaled weakness. Vulnerability. But, they had been… _would be_ … important, Kane felt. They were quick, clever and devoted, and the girl had taken well to implantation. If he could manage a…

The Mechanic stopped walking, abruptly; amber eyes narrowing tensely behind his cyber-link goggles. Turned his attention away from the Hive Ship, briefly, to focus on something else. Something outside. He was being discussed, the cyborg sensed. Not on the global world net, by mere Vermin. On crystal-link, by his own kind. A Kyrano, it was, speaking with Lord Hiro. Perhaps they thought themselves private, not realizing that Kane had long since mined even _their_ comm system with eavesdropping subroutines.

An important precaution, for one who'd gone utterly rogue. He only tuned in at the mention of himself, because it was wise to know what others intended. The bit he caught seemed important enough to make the cyborg go back and replay, seeking context.

 _"…had time to study Tanusha, and… through her… the Tracys. They will fall into line, Lord Hiro, or be destroyed. It matters not which. Next, I intend to bring down their ally, the "Mechanic". This is step one. Send the girl…"_ And, so forth. It seemed that Virgil Tracy's suspicion had been justified.

Kane stood in mid-passage, like a massive cybernetic boulder in a river of skittering drones. That Lord Kyrano was hatching another scheme came as no shock, whatsoever. After all, psions lived and breathed duplicity. Shape-shifters, too. Completely unstable once they'd mastered four or five morphs, the lot of them. Separately, he might swat Kyrano and Hiro like bothersome gnats. Allied, though… As allies, they might be a problem. Kyrano had mentioned the Tracys. Tanusha, by name, and one other. These had apparently been captured and replicated. Were perhaps already dug into that laughable fly-speck island the mongrel pack clung to.

No doubt, Kyrano had even bigger plans; maybe intending to steal the Thunderbird fleet, itself. Right… the Mechanic stood there in thought for a while, as his mechs brushed past him, or landed atop and leapt off, always seeking to touch him; the giver of life. What was his best course of action? How could he toss the biggest d*mn spanner into their plot?

Provide warning? To who, that he knew for a fact hadn't been already taken? With a low growl, the big cyborg called up his (very short) list of contacts. Was considering which to select, when the girl, Katrin, came wobbling into that expanding, slow-breathing passage.

With a clicking, buzzing Mantis hovering close behind, the small blonde walked very determinedly upright. She glistened with sweat and circuitry; eyes glowing faintly, in the manner of all newly-implanted young ones. His own eyes had done the same, twenty years prior.

Katrin smiled when she saw him, doing her level best to walk naturally on one enhanced meat leg, and one very powerful cyborg prosthetic. A fighter, that one. Strong, inside of her fragile shell. Ilya was much the same.

Katrin couldn't run, yet, but she could hurry, and this the child did; reaching up with both arms and placing a picture in his mind: himself, leaning down to pick up and carry her. Psions were a dangerous breed, and Kane knew it… but her tug, the warmth of her pleasure at seeing him, were tough to resist.

Should have swatted her into a bulkhead to instill proper fear and respect, but he didn't. Instead, the Mechanic reached carelessly down with one big hand, then scooped her up and around, draping Katrin like a flopping sack over one broad, tattooed shoulder.

She'd known all along that he'd come back. Perhaps, he'd had no other choice. As thin arms wrapped tight around his neck, and a wet, popping mouth-smack landed on one ear, he shifted her into a better position. Then, bidding the child keep silent, Kane went back to his contact list. Warn Horatio, possibly? Or Virgil Tracy? Maybe the other? Difficult decision to make, as it was not just a question of who would listen, but of who was still themselves. Still untaken. More than that, though… why should he bother?

Very slowly, Kane resumed prowling his Hive Ship, gnawing at the question with fretful intensity. Perhaps alliances _did_ create weakness, but they covered it, too, by providing someone else to keep watch. Someone "trusted". He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, yet, except through the children. Ilya and Katrin would turn their backs, fall asleep in his presence and accept what he gave them to eat. They seemed to feel that he would not seek advantage through harming them. Trust.

The Tracys behaved the same way. Meaning, Kane guessed, that they could be trusted, as well. The Mechanic shook his head, ignoring the little girl tracing his tattoos with her grubby small fingers. Not safe to just call, he decided. He'd have to go there, himself. Then,

"Sir! Sir! Kane!" shouted Ilya, pelting up the corridor, dodging (and sometimes vaulting) those swarming mechs. The slung laser rifle bounced at his back, almost bigger than the light-haired, excited young boy. "I hit every time, Sir! Didn't miss, even once!"

This was true, for Ship's enhanced sensors kept him abreast of the boy's developing marksmanship.

"Good," he rumbled, reaching up to sling Katrin at her proud, smiling brother. "But it's easy to hit a target that doesn't shoot back. Next time, set the practice chamber to level two. You'll have to aim while dodging return fire."

Not very dangerous. At level two, the targets shifted about, delivering no more than a sharp, stinging zap when missed. Good training, though. He'd been through it himself.

Ilya nodded, quieting his laughing small sister with a brief, tight arm-wrap.

"Yes, Sir, Kane," he responded. "I can do it, even if it's up to level _three."_

"Two," the cyborg grunted, adding, "and see that you don't put any holes in the hull, or you'll be out there with a work crew, patching them all." Then, "We leave for the Tracy stronghold in five hours' time. Rest and prepare yourselves. There will be hunting, and the Tracys may misunderstand."

Worse yet, they might all have been already caught and replicated. Even Horatio, or the Tracys' Virgil and John. _Sh*t._ Total stealth and silence, the Mechanic decided. Until he could see and scan them, himself, best to assume that no one was what they seemed. Not until he'd tracked down and slaughtered every last shape-slipping Kanni.


	52. Chapter 52

'Allo! Many thanks for your good humour and patience with my longer-than-expected story. Like a hound circling round and round, trying to find just the right spot, I'm choosing a place to leave off. 52's not prime, although 5 + 2 equals 7, which *is*. Hmm... Anyhow, thank you Creative Girl, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Susan, Thunderbird Shadow and Lorena.

 **52**

 _Ross Island, in the distant and frigid Antarctic-_

Nikorr Kyrano cut passive reception with an elegant wave of his hand. The crystal-link dimmed obediently, causing that very faint shimmering field to retract once again, casting the big stone room into shadow. Almost, he leapt in triumph, but restrained himself. Kane had, indeed, been listening, though Lord Hiro had not seemed aware of it. Very few things could be hidden from a powerful psion, however, including subtle surveillance.

"Step two," the Kyrano murmured, permitting himself a very slight smile. "Our impetuous quarry takes the bait."

…delivering _himself_ directly into the jaws of a ready and waiting trap.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _London, former UK, in the grand chancellery's largest, most sedately luxurious suite-_

It galled him to do it, as revoking a pardon smacked very much of vacillation, something Sebastian Shaw avoided as a matter of political course. No choice, however. The brute was entirely incorrigible, unable to restrain himself from returning to crime like a dog to its vomit; hijacking aircraft, kidnapping children, seizing boats and recklessly endangering thousands of people. All that, and he wasn't even doing his worst.

Grunting impatiently, the chancellor sat back in his big leather chair, his well-toned mass causing its frame to squeak. Light eyes fixed upon those troubling news feeds, he sat for a while and thought.

Annoying or not, Shaw supposed that he could make the cyborg's antics work in his own favour. After all, the enhanced, half-mad Special was tremendously powerful. A valuable prize, once arrested and collared.

So, quite unaware of the strings that were prompting his actions, Chancellor Shaw pressed a particular brass comm switch, announcing,

"General Order 52-23-A-prime. As of this moment, the Mechanic's pardon is revoked. Null and void. He is to be incapacitated and arrested on sight, by any and all GDF or WorldGov officers, _including_ International Rescue. Ignorance of this directive shall not excuse failure to comply, and shall lead to the arrest and trial of those who refuse to act accordingly. Signed, Sebastian Albert Shaw, Chancellor Plenipotentiary, this twenty-fifth day of Third Month, by right and popular acclaim."

...Thereby stirring that bubbling pot a bit harder.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Yokosuka, Japan, on the Navy-Town hospital's highest floor-_

As the treatment room door swung open, John stepped away from Kayo and Penny. Inhaled sharply, still thinking that there'd been a mistake; that Scott was somehow just suffering a case of temporary amnesia. Shock, or something.

The doctor came into the family waiting room, first, bowed politely, and then said,

"Honoured Sir, your loved ones and colleagues await you. Please follow me to greet them, and be introduced."

A slim, middle-aged man with greying hair, steel-rimmed glasses and a carefully neutral expression, Doctor Shiro hastened inside, making room for his trembling patient. John started forward, but the girls… Penny and Kay… got there ahead of him. Just as well, probably, since it gave him time to process what, _who,_ he was seeing.

Funny, how so much of a man's impact was shaped by his personality, stance, expression and confidence… or lack of it. Scott Tracy was every inch a fighter pilot and field commander. Wherever he was, like Dad and Lee Taylor, Scott had owned the room. When he spoke, everyone else had grown quiet and listened. Not anymore.

The guy walking in _looked_ like Scott, but in a thousand different ways, failed to act like him. When Kayo and Lady Penelope hurried to greet him, he actually flinched, trying to duck behind Dr. Shiro (who struggled to bow and dodge, at the same time). Scott seemed confused and… _afraid,_ something John had never expected to witness.

"Darling!" Penelope whisper-sobbed, trying to embrace him. Only, Scott reflexively blocked her hug and attempted kiss. Kayo had rushed ahead at first, then slowed a little, allowing Penny to beat her. Weird.

John glanced over at Captain Taylor, who was chewing gum as he watched these developments with a fixed and measuring stare. Didn't say anything, though. Not enough to go on, yet.

"Darling, it's me," Penny insisted forlornly, as though she could shake memory loose from his head like stubborn fruit. "I… we meant to be…" she stopped talking, then, because Scott shook his head and backed away from her.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," he said, sounding husky-hesitant. "I… d- don't remember you. I'm… Please, I just got here. I'm sorry."

Really the h*ll seemed like he wanted to effing _cry,_ and John felt like tearing someone in half. Rigby, meanwhile, was kneading the back of his own tense neck with one hand. Looked… like maybe he blamed _himself._ Hard to say, because John had never been great at interpreting so-called "body language". Really f*cking missed Eos, because she always filled him in; pointed sh*t out that he wouldn't have noticed, alone. Jaeger was there, present as the faintest red wandering gleam on his wrist comm, but if anything, the Hunter sucked worse than _he_ did at figuring people's emotional state. So, yeah… back to square clueless.

Maybe the situation primed John's brain. Possibly, thinking so hard about Eos trigged something inside of his head. Whatever, all at once a sort of message came through, apparently left there by his former guest, the Survivor. For just a moment, the room faded, and he heard that echoing voice.

 _"Carbon Base Space-Farer, I shall venture all, and take the only route open. I will ride the wormhole's end to wherever it leads, in hope of reaching my own kind. The one you seek is dispersed, not ended. It may be retrieved through construction of an appropriately sensitive antenna and collection device. May you be fortunate, and Rigby, as well."_

"Wait!" John blurted, wanting to ask a few really pertinent questions. Of course, everyone else in the room thought he was talking to them, but he wasn't. Plans had appeared in his head. Perfectly detailed 4-D blueprints for building some kind of highly amplified receiver. Almost like a radio antenna, only projecting in several weird directions relative to normal space. Beautiful… and creepy.

Because they were all looking at him (great) and he didn't want to explain (actually couldn't) John said,

"Let me try."

The girls moved away; Penny to the corner, Kayo off by herself. Taking a deep and steadying breath, John walked over; crossing that big-ass room to face someone who looked a lot like his brother.

"Hey, Scott," he greeted the shy, blue-eyed man. Got a worried frown in return, then…

"I saw pictures and video. You're… you're _John,_ right? John Tracy?"

Something crumpled up inside of him, then. Something related to quiet affection and vanished friendship.

"Yeah," he said, after a second. "I'm John. We, um… we're brothers, and used to be friends. Doesn't mean much right now, I guess, but everyone here thinks they know you. How, um… how are you feeling?"

'Scott' tried a nervous smile, which flicked away again, almost as soon as it showed.

"Scared," he admitted. "Confused. I just… y'know… just woke up a few hours ago. _She_ was there," he nodded at Kayo, adding, "but I thought I did something wrong, because she was angry, and I didn't know what… how to… I'm sorry."

Penny had started to cry, very quietly. John could hear her faint sniffles and noises. Kayo just stared into space, meanwhile, interacting with no one at all. John felt himself pulled about three different ways, but the guy he was facing... his brother and used-to-be friend... probably needed him most. Shaking his head, the tall astronaut said,

"Don't be sorry. This isn't your fault. Maybe there's a way to fix what's been done. Maybe what you used to know 's been downloaded and stored, someplace, or… or you can just come home and start over… learn it all back, the hard way. It'll be rough on the rest of them… especially Grandma… but, um, I'll run interference for you, Scott, and so will Virgil. He's like that. You're not… in this by yourself, is all. I'm here. We all are. Maybe you don't remember it, but…"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't know what to say.

 _'I love you?'_

 _'We've always been friends?'_

 _'Don't f*cking_ _do_ _this?'_

…nothing sounded quite right, or matched the mess going on there, inside of him. Maybe Scott got what he meant, though, because he did that nervous half-smile, again, saying,

"Could I talk to you later, John? Alone?"


	53. Chapter 53

Another short one, but the scene felt complete by itself. I have the day (sort of) off, today, as there are some online classes I need to take. Thank you for reading and reviewing. You guys are the best. =) And, Hey, 53's not just prime, but an Einstein Prime _and_ a Sophie Germaine prime. Can't beat that with a stick!

 **53**

 _In Thunderbird 2, climbing to thirty-five thousand feet, over the wild North Atlantic-_

Yeah, Virgil Tracy was tired… exhausted and utterly drained, would have been closer to the mark… but his day wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot. He had to get home first, and break a few things to Gordon. Not Alan, though. Not yet. News like that… well, you had to break that face-to-face.

Emma was coming back soon, to burn up some leave time. She'd messaged and told him so. Virgil clung to that, because the next few days were going to be rough.

Flying for home, he half-listened to the familiar noises of lockdown and decontamination from below. Just Thunderbird 4, going through her usual post-capture shower, repair and diagnostics. Lots of chatter from the cockpit, too, as Gordon explained these goings-on to an awed Chip and Ellie. No body cams, obviously.

Meanwhile, Thunderbird 3 cruised by overhead, performing a gallant _'Hey, guys!'_ barrel roll. Sky was brightening toward sunrise, but the rocket's running lights were still a flashing necklace of green and white on that vivid red hull; the big, flood-lit **'3'** spinning in and out of his view as she rotated. Virgil Tracy smiled and shook his head, thinking: _show-off._

Could have been worse. At least his Bird would move without an act of Congress. John was the one stuck on a small, tubby city. Try performing aerobatic maneuvers in _that_ heap.

Virgil's fond thoughts were abruptly sliced off when the cabin door hummed open. Next, Gordon tromped in; coming forward to flop heavily into the copilot's seat, yawning and stretching. The muscular, sandy-haired aquanaut looked about as fresh as Virgil _felt,_ and smelled like "hard work".

"Morning, Sunshine," said the pilot, giving Thunderbird 3 a friendly answering wing-dip. "Your passengers…?"

"Back in… the crew cabin, already… fast asleep. Said hi… to Buddy, first," Gordon assured him, punctuating the statement with three lengthy yawns.

"Well, have some coffee, or plug your nose in a power-outlet, Fish-stick. We, um… we need to talk, before reaching Base."

Outside, the stars were beginning to fade as the sky turned watery grey, and Thunderbird 3 zipped around them; darting through the air like a hyper-caffeinated firefly. Okay… maybe _he'd_ shown off a little, too, with a female in the cockpit, but there were limits. _Kids._

"You're the boss," Gordon was saying, as he accepted a lidded drink cup from Mini-Max. Hot chocolate, with plenty of whipped cream, marshmallows and life-giving caramel, rather than coffee. "What's up back home?" He'd been too deep in his own troubles (so to speak) to distinguish a problem with family.

Virgil glanced his way, dark eyes grim and upset.

"I'd tell you to sit down, but you already are, so… It's Scott. I know it sounds crazy, Kiddo, but I _felt_ something awhile back… like he was in trouble, needed help, _bad…_ and then it all just cut off. I was worried at the time, but, you know how it is…"

Gordon nodded, setting that already drained plastic cup in its holder. Neither young man noticed when a Max zipped in to whisk it away.

"The mission comes first, always," Gordon supplied promptly. After all, International Rescue existed to save lives. That meant Joe and Jane Citizen, not Scott, John, Virgil, and so on. They wouldn't have accomplished much if they were always haring off to rescue each other. That was the dark side of an otherwise wonderful job. "So… he got hurt? He's in rehab, or something?" the aquanaut probed, beginning to sense the first icy shadow of bad news to come.

Virgil made eye contact… dark to hazel… and then looked away, back to the safe, sane horizon.

"Not exactly," he hedged, after clearing his throat. "Kayo called me up. Said that, uh… that Scott's been, y'know… mind-scraped."

Didn't need to explain what _that_ meant, or who was always responsible. Gordon didn't react for a moment or two. Shocked, maybe, or just plain refusing to hear it. Only noise in that cabin was the rumble and hum of Thunderbird 2, herself. Then, the swimmer shook his blond head.

"No," he said. "You've got it wrong, or Kay made a mistake. We work with the GDF. Colonel Casey and them wouldn't order something like that on one of us. They _wouldn't."_

He was breathing harder, now; deliberately looking away out the viewscreen, as though Virgil was just making sh*t up to upset him. The pilot didn't press. Simply went back to flying his Big Girl, saying quietly,

"Just thought you needed to know, Gordon. They'll be home before we are. They're closer to Base."

Gordon shook his head once again, unstrapping to rise from the copilot's chair, rushing and suddenly clumsy.

"Where are you going?" asked Virgil, feeling sick to his stomach and heart.

"For a walk," growled his brother, in low, savage tones. Seconds later, he'd abandoned the cockpit, blind with emotion and a terrible need to escape. Virgil let him go.

After that, there was nothing to do but fly home, escorted by a dancing red Bird and her happy, still innocent, flight crew.


	54. Chapter 54

...and then, I had to go wreck my nice system by extending to 54. On the other hand, 5 + 4 gets you 9, which is a very wonderful number, and filled with surprises. Gotta love that, right? Thank you for reviewing, you guys. Will respond with lightning-like speed! ;)

 **54**

 _Thunderbird 5, in high, geosynchronous orbit-_

Unexpectedly, Jeff got an unknown, mysterious comm-buzz. As he was right in the midst of a furious argument with Colonel Casey, he very nearly didn't pick up. Floating there in mid-dome (which he hadn't left all day, except for hurried bathroom and water breaks) Jeff glared at Casey's holo, growling,

"Mind-scrapes aren't cheap or simple to perform, Colonel. They require proper equipment and expertise. So, you tell _me._ If not the Unity Council, who else could've done this, and why?! International Rescue has always upheld the world government. Maybe Scott didn't want to reactivate as a fighter pilot, but that doesn't justify..."

"Jeff, I simply don't…"

By this time, they were talking over each other, in growing spirals of volume.

"Colonel _Tracy,"_ he corrected her, in a voice of pure, distilled wrath. "I'm only Jeff to my friends, and right now, the GDF doesn't qualify."

Casey inhaled sharply, then blinked; head jerking back as though rocked by a blow. She would have said something, maybe, only that sudden call came through, first. Masked and deeply encrypted, it sprang from seemingly nowhere, using a semi-private family line. Ordinarily, he'd have shunted it off to Brains. Now though, that call was the perfect excuse to ring off.

"Important message on another line," Jeff barked, already thumbing the flashing red comm switch. "Tracy, _out."_

Her glowing blue holo winked away like a rudely-snuffed candle, suddenly ending debate. Angry, confused and torn with unspoken feelings, the uniformed officer sat fuming alone in her office. Snapped a stylus in half, and then another, all the while staring at nothing. Then, stabbing a button on her sleek plastic desk, Casey growled,

"Get me the chancellor. I don't care what he's doing. Drag him off his d*mn secretary, if you have to. Get Rigby, too, on a second line. _Now,_ dammit!"

Meanwhile, up in the station, Jeff had taken the risk of accepting a tightly encrypted hail. After all, what the h*ll else could go wrong?

He heard a series of whistles and beeps. Then, where Linda Casey had been just seconds before, a shadowy, distorted figure blossomed. Dark and featureless, outlined in fiery sparks, it addressed him. In a voice of hissing static, the figure said,

"Tracy: Japan belongs to the Hiros. The Hiros are shape-changers. Consider well." Just those few words, and then it was gone; vanished away before Jeff could track the call's source, or blurt a response.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Somewhere else, entirely; beginning, perhaps, to forget-_

Scott Tracy had never liked farm labour. Too dirty and exhausting, with d*mn little to show at the end of it all except painful blisters and crushing debt. This was different, though.

Now, instead of grumbling his way through a hated chore, Scott had swarmed up that ladder and into the dim, fragrant hay loft like a pirate scaling the mast of a captured schooner. Grinning, he threw open the big doors at the gabled far end, letting in sunlight as more than just shy, peeping beams. Plenty of gusty warm air, too.

Leaned out a little and waved to Granddad, waiting in the barnyard below with a tractor and wagon.

"How many, Sir?" he called down, as Rusty ran hither and yon, scattering chickens and barking like a fool. Granddad lifted a hand in reply, calling back,

"Five bales, and a sack o' sweet-feed. South pasture ain't producing like she oughta. Come Friday, we'll switch th' herd ta th' west thirty. Careful with them bales."

"Yessir," Scott replied. There were tools, big hooks for grabbing and slinging the prickly gold hay bales, but he felt stronger and younger than he had in years. Muscled that hay right onto the harness and winched it down, himself. Experienced things he hadn't in ages, and enjoyed every d*mn one of them.

Tiny motes danced in bright sunlight, stirred by the breeze of his work. Scott's footfalls thudded on creaking wood, as a family of half-feral cats looked on, seeming amused by his effort. Tabby or calico, most of them. Half didn't even have names (to any but Kayo, who'd adopted them all).

Slinging those heavy bales, Scott worked up a sweat and an appetite, actually forgetting for several long minutes that he'd ever lived anywhere _else._ That _this_ wasn't his "normal". Could it be, though?

Scott paused for a minute, up in the hayloft; sweating, happy and puzzled. Watched swallows darting to and from their homes in the rafters, making their own sort of warbling music.

Could he choose to stay here, where nothing had ever gone wrong? If he did, what would that mean for the rest of his family, out _there?_ Could he reach them, somehow? Was he dead? Were they trying to find him, or putting him into the ground?

"Ain't got all day, Boy!" he heard, from outside and below. Granddad, still waiting.

"Yes, Sir! I'm wrapping it up!" Scott called back, mopping his brow with a damp plaid sleeve. Got those last few bales down to his grandfather, then descended the ladder in two jumps, loping across the barn to the locked metal bin that held the sweet-feed and cracked corn. Well… supposed to be locked. Kayo 'd evidently forgotten to seal it up tight again, after feeding the chickens.

Scott shook his head as he hauled out a feed sack and tossed it up onto one shoulder. He'd have to have a talk with that girl… but wouldn't tell Granddad. No sense troubling the Old Man with what he could handle himself, on the down-low.

Rest of the day went like something out of a dream. Hopped on that beat-up green tractor with Granddad, got the cows fed. (Jerseys, most of them. Only the bull, Ferdinand, was a white-face.) Worked his _ass_ off… but talked and listened, too. Asked questions. Laughed at deadpan jokes told in a rumbling drawl he'd never expected to hear again, ever.

Know what was funny, though? No headaches or blood-pressure dizzy spells. Not one. Then, as they were heading back to the barnyard, with the sun setting orange and full in a gem-coloured sky, Grant Tracy gave his oldest grandson a sideways glance and said,

"Don't suppose you've changed y'r mind… about takin' over th' place, once I'm gone?"

Scott, startled, turned from watching the fields, the slow, flat river and huddled cottonwoods.

"Sir?" he asked. See, in real life, he'd been much younger when a massive heart attack had killed his grandfather, and the subject had never come up.

Still driving the tractor along the pasture-access road, Granddad mused,

"This land's been in th' family f'r a long time, Scott… an' I figure y'r daddy ain't interested. He wants…" Grant gestured upward with one big, rough hand. "… _space._ Adventure. Not a buncha d*mn cows, an' work that don't never stop. Cain't see John Matthew takin' it over, neither. He's got th' same bug as Jeffery, ta see them stars up close. Th' young 'uns, well…" Grant shrugged his broad shoulders, straining that faded plaid shirt. "No kid wants ta be tied down ta th' land, anymore. Don't set right ta just up an' sell, though. Given it any more thought?"

Scott opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, again. Looked at Granddad's weary, hopeful face, with its bright blue eyes and deep smile lines. Teenaged Scott would have said _no,_ pure and simple; wanting wings, not a d*mn tractor. Near thirty-year Scott had a different perspective.

"Sir," he admitted, after a brow-furrowed moment or two, "I'm not a very good farmer."

Granddad snorted with sudden laughter.  
"No one is, at first. They learn as they go. Get a feel f'r when ta do things. What ta plant, when ta sell off some a' th' herd. How ta make good things grow. We've allus managed, since y'r lotta-greats granddaddy, Jake, first bought th' place."

Scott nodded, riding easily with the rumble and sway of their big green conveyance.

"Only, then dad got a wild hair up his… um… decided he wanted to fly, right?"

Granddad sighed, feeling around in the pockets of his denim jacket for a packet of cigarettes and an unbroken match.

"That's about the size of it," he agreed, letting Scott handle the controls while he shook out a 'coffin-nail' and lit up. "Now you an' John Matthew 're all et up ta join the academy, too."

The wagon jounced and creaked behind them, hitting ruts every so often. Distant cow bells tinkled, and the house lights were just coming on, as Grandma rang the dinner bell. Scott took it all in, marveling.

"Sir," he began, after another few moments of silence and billowing smoke, "Let me think it over."

Grant Tracy seemed to relax, as though he'd been holding his breath, or something. Nodding, the big, silver-haired farmer said,

"Cain't expect no more 'n that from ya, Boy. It'd set me at ease, some, is all, knowin' th' place 'd stay in th' family."

Scott wanted to hug him and stop all that talk about passing the property on. Granddad was here, now… and Mom, too, in a Kansas that somehow was still hale and beautiful. Could… could he keep it that way?

As they reached the barnyard, then had to uncouple and put up the tractor and wagon (no fancy hangar-rides, here) Scott surprised himself. Leaning across to touch the older man's hard-muscled arm, he said,

"I love you, Granddad… and, if I decide to stay, that'll be why, right there."

Grant Tracy just cleared his throat and stubbed out the cigarette, busying himself with machine, shed doors and jingling keys; looking everywhere else, but at Scott. Then,

"Them words don't get said a lot… but that don't mean they ain't felt. Reckon I love you, too, Boy. Now… let's wash up an' get ta supper, afore th' women-folk toss it all out f'r th' dog."

They met up with John (smelling like horses and sweet-feed), then took turns at the hose, getting "respectable". Left their boots on the porch, then went on into a big old house alive with noise and light and laughter; filled with the scent of good food.

And somehow, bit by bit, over pot-roast, biscuits, mashed potatoes, baked beans and cherry cobbler, his other past started slipping away. What with Virgil recounting the details of an upcoming concert, Gordon clowning around making faces on the plate with bits of his supper, Alan and Kayo competing for the last scoop of cobbler... With mom secretly drawing on the art pad she'd hid on her lap… Grandma piling more food on his plate… how could Scott worry? How could fear and pain touch him, here?


	55. Chapter 55

Greetings and salutations! =) Many thanks, Tikatu, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Thunderbird Shadow, Creative Girl and Susan, for your helpful reviews. They are valued.

 **55**

 _Yokosuka, Japan, at the Navy Town hospital's lush VIP suite-_

While the city below tried to pick up its pieces, Captain Taylor was good and determined to d*mn well glue his back together. One boy down; brain-scraped and… hang on. 'Bombed', he'd been thinking. Same way Doc Richey 'd got the crap bombed out'n hisself by the Chaos Crew, turning him blind and deaf as a Goddam post.

Only, Spencer could see and hear. No visible damage, at all. But Brain Scraping didn't fix _nuthin'._ If that was Spence, he shoulda been busted up pretty bad, as well as losing his eyesight and hearing. Instead, he was over there talking to Jase and the doctor.

Lee shifted position, brow furrowing as he tried to work this thing out. Was about to signal Jason, when his comm buzzed. Vibrated, actually. He'd set it on mute, for the hospital.

Checked it reflexively, having never got used to that whole "retirement" thing. The message was short, and it come from Jeffery, out on Thunderbird 5. ' _Imposter,'_ it said, and ' _explain later'._

Imposter? As in, maybe that weren't the real Spence? Now, that was a whole 'nother ball game. One he proposed to win.

"Jase!" Lee called out, putting the silenced comm back into his pocket. "C'mere, Son. Need ta talk t' ya."

The younger astronaut turned to glance across the room, nodded, and then said something quiet to Spencer, who seemed awful nervous. Because he'd just been scraped and lost all he knew… or because he'd never had it to begin with? Anyhow, Jason gave his 'brother' a warm shoulder clasp, and then came over to stand beside Taylor.

"Sir?" he asked, gaze roving 'twixt Spence, Miss Polly and young Tina. In a low voice, Captain Taylor said,

"Y'r brother jus' wrapped up a fight with the Chaos Crew. Wyatt says he up an' walked right inta one a' their screamers. Same bomb whut turned Doc Richey stone blind an' deaf. Now, you tell _me,_ Jase. Whut's wrong with this picture?"

Jason's blue-green eyes narrowed, and his face hardened, suddenly.

"He's not hurt, and he can still see and hear," the redhead replied, real tense and quietly. Maybe not quiet _enough,_ because Tina twitched just a little. D*mn. Had she always been able to hear that good, or had he just tipped his hand? Could there be more 'n one fake? Come ta think on it, Tina hadn't come here in Shadow, neither. What if the reason was that she couldn't? Didn't know how to fly a d*mn Bird? And Wyatt? Was the Marine any more trustworthy? He'd been with Tina and Spencer, down there in the city.

Indicating heart-broke Miss Polly with a slight jerk of his head, Taylor said,

"Make an excuse. Any d*mn thing. Jus' git 'er on outta here."

Officially, he and Jason now had the same rank, but the boy didn't ask no questions. Just strode across to Miss Polly, took her arm and said sumthin' hushed. Meanwhile, Taylor went over to Spencer's physician, doing his best to look sorrowful, 'stead of loaded for bear.

That's when, by Lee's figuring, all hell and most o' damnation broke loose, right there in Yokosuka.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Global-1 space station, parked in orbit near Thunderbird 5-_

Military leave wasn't something you just blinked up like a genie. Not even if you _were_ the d*mn station commander. First, you had to apply through the proper channels, arrange coverage, leave a contact number and address, and _then_ wait around for approval. Matter of hours to days, depending on circumstance, and the wicked small gremlins that always threw sand in the gears of administration.

This time, Ridley got lucky. Less than a day after applying through GDF Comm-Net, her leave was approved. Placing Lieutenant Moore in charge, and packing light, Captain O'Bannon commandeered a fast shuttle, then headed back down the well to meet Emma Kraft, her best friend. They were due to rendezvous at 0330, in Honolulu. From there, they'd catch a mail flight to Tracy Island.

Ridley piloted herself, because she'd always hated just riding. Knew she could trust her own skills at the stick, or John's. Anyone else, especially a subordinate or civilian, made her uneasy.

Now, as she pulled away from that clunky antique of a space ark, Ridley worked on self-control. In less than five hours, she'd be back with Tracy, a fact which left her all flutterguts, as did the sight of his gently whirling station. Her biomonitors were all over the place; picking up accelerated pulse and breathing, plus elevated core temperature. Hormones were spiking, too, and… according to her ever-helpful heads-up display… Ridley's pupils were dilated. _'Crazy in love',_ transformed into dry biometrics.

She wanted to hold his hand, drink herself drunk on his scent, be wrapped up tight in powerful arms. She wanted to kiss him deeply, and let him inside, even if only on Earth, in boring 2-D.

Made it hard to focus on piloting, and that meant possible trouble, what with all of that backed-up freight traffic. Captain O'Bannon was far too professional to daydream while flying, though. Much. To cool herself off, she commed Emma.

"Afternoon, Captain," she greeted her Navy comrade, once Kraft had picked up the line. GDF time was standard; the same, everywhere.

Emma grinned at O'Bannon, being apparently out on her vessel's weather deck. She wore dress whites and had to speak up over wave song and engine noise.

"Afternoon, yourself, Captain! Where are you?"

Ridley checked her polar coordinates.

"About… one-hundred-fifty-five thousand feet above sea level, on track for Pear Harbour in thirty-six minutes. You?"

"Already in port, Ree. We were due to put in for refueling and maintenance, anyhow. The XO's already in charge and loving it. Jack 'll be fine. Meet you at the O-club?"

Ridley smiled, anticipating tropical drinks and a catch-up with her best friend.

"Sounds like a plan. Have you heard anything more from _yours?"_ (Her Tracy, Ridley meant.)

Emma nodded once, squinting at wind and bright sunshine.

"Yeah, I have… but it's better to talk face to face. What about you?"

O'Bannon shrugged, as much as the pilot seat's straps would allow her.

"Just the usual "I'm okay" texts. He's at the hospital with you-know-who, visiting."

"Right," Emma responded, green eyes all at once grim. "Best to be ready for anything, is my advice. The boys have a way of landing in trouble, y'know?"

O'Bannon snorted with laughter, swooping her shuttle down over Pacific Air Space.

"Oh, believe me, Em… I _know._ Tracy can't cross the street without…"

"…causing a ruckus, or having to settle one," her friend concluded the sentence, as Pacific Flight Authority OK'd her approach. Outside, black turned to blue and the stars faded away as Earth's atmosphere took hold. Her shuttle rattled and bounced, its forcefield flaring as it absorbed all that energy.

In the space of a few short breaths, the planet had gone from a serene, spinning globe alongside her, to a flat spread of ocean and jade-like islands, below. She ought to 've gotten used to that, by now, but the sight never failed to surprise her… kind of like gravity. (And a good thing she'd packed a bra, Ridley thought; the "blouse bunnies" did not enjoy that suddenly harsh downward pull.)

"Well," she mused, banking around to circle Hawaii. "Maybe we can help them get out of whatever flavour crap the universe is dishing out, _this_ time."

Em rolled her eyes.

"It's a tough job," she joked.

"… but _somebody's_ got to do it," Ridley concluded, smiling. "And women all over the globe salute your courage."

"He's not that bad," Emma laughed, "Except when he runs out of hair gel. Now _that's_ a red-hot emergency."

"Or, no beer and pizza," added O'Bannon, chuckling fondly. "Send in the Marines!" Then, sobering up, "That's love, is it? Missing even the stupid stuff?"

Kraft's smile changed at that, growing softer; less merry.

"Yeah… I think it is," she said, as O'Bannon received permission to line up and land on runway twelve. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything; worry, heartache and all."

A sentiment they'd soon get to put to the test.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere, on a night of pale moonlight and gathering clouds-_

Thing was, there were serpents in Paradise, and every haven had thorns.

"So, what 'd you want to tell me about?" John asked him, that night after dinner. They were back in their room, with the windows open to a gusting warm breeze. Lights off and supposed to be sleeping. The grey tabby sat on their cushioned window seat, folded up into "meatloaf mode"; limbs tucked in and tail curled close around.

Scott stared up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling, picking out those familiar old patterns.

"I dunno, Little Brother… maybe it's only a dream… but I think I remember being some kind of rescuer. Part of something Dad started up, to help people in trouble. Does that make any sense?"

His brother's voice in the darkness was cautious.

"That Dad would start up his own rescue squad? Yeah… I could see him doing that, if he didn't stay with the Space Force and bring us all over to Mars Base, or something. So… we're like firemen? Or EMTs?"

Scott rolled over in bed, tucking one bent arm under his head, to frown at his shadowy brother. Outside, the wind had begun to pick up, driving shreds of cloud past a full, grinning Moon.

"All of the above, plus pilots and hackers, too, in your case and Alan's."

 _"Alan?"_ John blurted, sounding incredulous. "He's just a kid, Scott. Why would Dad put him up in an airplane and out into trouble?"

"Rocket," Scott corrected. "We go into space, John. You have your own station, up there."

John was silent a moment. Then,

"I made it to space? I'm an astronaut?" he asked, very softly.

"Yeah, Buddy. You made it. Top marks at the academy, two-year stint on Mars, with Commander McCord, then back home, after Dad… well, after he disappeared."

Weirdly, it all felt so dream-like, now; like a show he'd caught on TV, not his actual life. John digested this in silence for a bit, saying finally,

"He left us? Took off? We don't have very good luck in your fantasies, do we?"

Scott laughed at that because, y'know, it was sort of true.

"No… I guess we don't, with enemies all over the d*mn place, and only Grandma sticking around the whole time… plus Uncle Lee. He was there, too, pretty much. Then Dad came back, I think. We found him, or something." Couldn't recall the details, for some reason. Added, when John kept quiet,

"You think I'm crazy?"

Heard his brother's long hair hiss and swish on the pillow, as John shook his head.

"No… you sound alright to me. Just mighty confused. Didn't, um… hit your head, or fall in love again, did you? Last time you acted this weird, it was Sherry Knight's fault."

"No," Scott grunted impatiently, flopping over onto his back and folding both arms behind his head, fingers laced. "But I don't know what's true anymore, Little Brother. That life, or _this._ It's…"

 _So peaceful here,_ he'd been about to say, just as emergency weather alarms beeped to life in every room of their house.


	56. Chapter 56

Gotta love a three-day weekend. =) I'm for holidays, whatever their cause, but especially those about freedom and justice. Thanks, guys, for all the support. Got one more chapter to write, I figure. Then, it's on to the next.

 **56**

 _Just outside of that posh VIP suite, at the Navy Town hospital complex-_

He'd taken her arm and made some excuse about "fresh air", before heading away with Penny. Events got sort of jumbled, after that… a lot going on… but prior to the blast, in front of the open lift doors, John told her,

"It's not what you think, Pen. Scott should've been hurt pretty bad, after a fight like Lee says he had, and that guy _isn't._ Someone's replaced him, somehow."

Penelope's face changed, entirely, then; going from hopeless mask to sudden life and… joy, maybe. Blue eyes very wide first, then narrow, she said,

"This means that the true Scott is elsewhere, perhaps imprisoned, or otherwise imperiled."

John nodded.

"Most likely. Captain Taylor and I can handle the doubles…" Because, maybe Kayo, as well? His sister should have been able to spot a fake but hadn't said a d*mn thing. "You get with Parker. The two of you can…"

"Seek out dear Scott. Never you fear, John, he shall be rescued. And, _thank_ you."

This last, as she lunged upward to seize his head and drag it lower, planting a kiss square on his mouth. Then she let go and dashed off in a swirl of torn pink skirts and overlong jacket, looking as determined as the redhead had ever seen her. Confused, he scrubbed at that kiss with the back of one hand. Females, y'know?

He was turning away to head back, when a couple of things happened, at once. First, with a weird, crumpling roar, the outside wall just came apart and blew free, sending a massive shock wave rocketing outward and blowing dozens of doors off their hinges. Someone had triggered a nasty.

Next, time froze like crystal, locked down in every detail of fanning debris and lancing hot air. No flame, weirdly. John stumbled backward a little, lifted and shoved by what felt like an aerial tidal wave. No alarms, yet. No time. Recovered his balance, just as a sudden glowing red line appeared, hanging vertically right there in front of him. It unzipped to form something that looked like the crimson, slit-pupiled eye of a dragon. Then, he heard,

 _-Sie schatzen die Friseur-Gesichter ein. -_

(Approximately: You esteem the hairy-face one.)

Hairy…? Captain Taylor?

"Ja, Jaeger. Tue Ich." (I do.)

 _-Dann warden Sie entscheiden, schnell zu machen. –_

(Then, you will choose to make haste.)

Easier said than done, pushing against air gone suddenly dense and rejecting as concrete, but John was already moving. Paused just long enough to send Penny a comm message, over the new device she'd gotten from Virgil: _Go. It's handled._

No sense having her turn right around and come back. Not with Scott out there, somewhere, needing help.

For the record, time-locked air was _not_ your friend. Hurt like h*ll to breathe and burnt to push through. Especially when impelled by some kind of blast. Jaeger's "eye" kept up by vanishing _here_ , to reappear _there._ Nice trick. John had to… not walk, but repeatedly lunge and scramble, hurling himself at those pulses of rock-solid air. Took effing _forever,_ from his perspective, because he had to avoid all the glittering, sharp-edged missiles that hung there before him like spears. Lot of energy locked up in those splinters of doorframe and wall. Bump into them and they'd slice right through you.

He hurried, anyhow. After all, this was a hospital, right? There was a doctor, right handy. If he was going to do something dumber than usual, this was the place to go nuts in.

Sent O'Bannon a quick, reassuring text first, because females worried if you stayed out of touch. Plus, he still owed her dinner, someplace nice.

Subjectively, almost fifteen minutes passed before John fought his way back into the ruined hospital suite. First thing he saw was a missing back wall. Not blown apart. F*cking _gone,_ with the doctor frozen there, in the act of being blasted right out, twenty-some stories above street level.

Spotted Rigby, who actually seemed to be moving, just _very_ slowly. The Marine looked pale and upset and was headed where Kayo had been. Only, she'd vanished. 'Scott', too. Lee was still there, locked in the act of tumbling backward, one arm up to defend his face from a blizzard of glistening shards. Not wood, glass or masonry. Something targeted.

His first impulse was to snatch Uncle Lee out of danger, only… y'know… The mission came first, and Doctor Shiro was a dead man, if John didn't get there in time to haul his ass back inside. Lines of sparking red light had begun to lash out, knitting the disintegrating floor and walls together. Mostly. There were plenty of gaps, looking more like stones in a glowing red current than any kind of safe flooring. Still,

"Jaeger!" John called out, nearly frying his vocal cords. Needed more time.

 _-Gehen. Es wird behandelt. –_

(Go. It is handled.)

John nodded, saying,

"Gut. Wird gemacht." (Right. Will do.)

Slogging past Taylor, John reached over to touch the man's out-flung left arm.

"Coming back for you, Sir. Promise."

Left him behind, but _God_ , that hurt. Then, through air like burning slag, over a floor smashed into red-stitched loose blocks, John went after the wide-eyed, mouth-open doctor, whose arms reached desperately inward for help.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Approaching Tracy Island, below the surface-_

Kane stood upon the deck of his Hive Ship, which wasn't entirely ready (but was going to see battle, anyhow). He'd glided past a towering sea mount, the whole thing pulsing with corals and schools of fish like silvery smoke. Saw it all through his link to Ship's systems. His mechs rode along on the hull, or else flashed through the currents, silencing the island's alarm system and sensors. He wanted no advance warning, you see. No sign of his presence, at all.

That meant that he could not simply surface… but the water-boy, Dumbass, had access through some sort of tunnel. Shouldn't be too hard to… _Really?_ Runway lights and a wide-open cavern? Why not a neon 'welcome aboard' sign, too? Then again, he _was_ emitting a stolen Thunderbird code. The tunnel might have looked like a regular sea cave, for anyone else.

Whatever. He had his way in. Ilya was at the main gun, meanwhile, watching with interest as the Mechanic directed Ship's next metamorphosis. She'd need to be thinner, to access that tunnel. With gestures and lines of cyber-code, he transformed the vessel, making her sleeker still.

Katrin sat on his link dais, playing with a set of small, big-eyed mechs. Brightly coloured, they taught as well as rolled around chiming. She was happy, reaching with thoughts like warm, patting hands to Kane and her brother.

"You two," he rumbled, as Ship bucked and groaned all around them. "Hold fire until I've painted a target, like this."

A moment's concentration caused a disk of light to appear on the rippling bulkhead, at a frequency visible only to them and the massive cyborg, himself. Their enhancements, the circuitry he'd implanted, were boosting their senses, shaving response time. They weren't simply half-vermin kids, any longer.

Ilya responded by bringing his rifle to bear and getting a rapid target-lock. On safety, of course. Katrin scrambled to her feet and then reached out with a wave of inchoate power; terribly strong and scarcely controlled.

"Good," he allowed, switching the target back off. "You will remain with me or a team of mechs, only separating if ordered to." Didn't ask for assent or understanding. They'd do as he told them, and live.

Right. In his own experience, there'd been no such training. No instructions, at all. He'd survived childhood because he was quick, strong and intelligent… and because he'd been fortunate. Others had not. Perhaps by teaching these two, he was crippling natural skills?

He just didn't know. Shaking his partly-shaved head, Kane left off worrying. It _felt_ right to do as he was. To 'shelter' the children, while they grew strong. Anyhow, his best philosophy started and ended with blasting weaponry. Best speeches, too.

As Ship completed her metamorphosis and entered that foolishly welcoming tunnel, Kane growled,

"Bring charge packs and food bars. We will not announce ourselves, until I am certain who is a Tracy. Once that is known, you will need to be ruthless. Kanni are young. They have few alternate forms, making them physically stable, but unskilled and violent. You will destroy them, without hesitation. They cannot well take the form of a being with bio-circuitry. Can't read it. Trust only me, and each other."

"Yes, Sir," said Ilya, re-slinging his rifle. The girl simply smiled and sent a pulse of _warmth-safety-arm wrap-full belly-fight._ 'Yes', without words.

"No more good girl," she told them both suddenly, as her toy mechs switched colours to match her clothing and swarmed up her legs. "No more be quiet."

For some reason, Kane reached down to place a big, armoured hand on the top of her curly blonde head.

"Not 'good'," he confirmed. " _Powerful_."

All three of them… and maybe the Tracys, now, too.

…But as for Tanusha, she woke to a nightmare of horror and loss; back where she'd been before found by her dad.


	57. Chapter 57

Sorry! :') I'll shut up now, I promise.

 **57**

 _Somewhere else, in a Kansas that never was-_

Something was coming. Scott knew that sound, and he dreaded it. Like a freight train barreling for them at full speed and power; part murderous, clattering roar, part wild, insane howl. A tornado, but… how? The weather hadn't been that bad, just windy and warm.

Nevertheless, the house had begun to shudder, its walls and roof flexing with the sudden sharp drop in air pressure. Light bulbs popped in a shower of sparks as the power went out, choking those shrill storm sirens.

He and John vaulted out of their beds, as a hail of debris slammed the house. Didn't bother with shoes or more clothes, just dove for the hallway. Granddad was already there with a flashlight and radio, shouting something that the boys couldn't hear.

Didn't matter. Scott and the rest had been through drills enough to know what had to be done. John crossed the hall to scoop Alan up, while Scott seized Kayo, and Virgil… big for his age… slung an arm around Gordon. Buddy system, just like they'd practiced.

The house was coming apart all around them. Scott could hear the tortured shriek of nails being pulled out of splintering wood, as Granddad led their way downstairs, Mom and Grandma holding tight to his arms.

The cat streaked past in the darkness, like a bolt of furry lightning. Rusty pressed close to Scott's legs, meanwhile, almost making him trip. Didn't fall, though, and didn't drop Kay, whose skinny arms were twined tightly around his neck. He didn't think she was crying, but with all the wind, banging doorways and side-driven rain, it was hard to be sure.

The storm-cellar entrance was down below, alongside the back porch. Felt like a thousand miles to Scott, whose eyes were half-closed against bullets of dust and debris. He heard the staircase creak, as though its back were breaking in two.

Then, that monster storm was upon them, bashing out windows and tearing the roof away like the lid of a cardboard box. There was head-splitting, earth-shaking noise, a sensation of powerful lift, and then darkness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Yokosuka, Japan-_

He had to proceed very cautiously; moving through a room that was stuck in the act of coming apart. Looked like one of Brains' nanite constructions, when the engineer decided to hit "un-do". Only Jaeger's help made it possible for John to spring (with agonizing slowness) from one chunk of disintegrating floor to the next, reaching for Doctor Shiro.

 _-Schnell, -_ he heard. ('Hurry,' because Jaeger was losing his grip, and John could feel time beginning to wake.)

This close, he could see tears in the man's pleading dark eyes. Made him try harder. Push way past what should have been possible, even for a guy with some illegal upgrades.

Could almost seize Shiro at full stretch, but not quite. Brushed fingertips, leaning out over dizzy nothing, on that last bit of crumbling floor tile. Sh*t. Now, what? Didn't have his exopod with him, because it was bulky and certain to trigger alarms. He'd left it behind in the Creighton-Ward undersea yacht. Couldn't summon the thing, either. Not without shifting to real time, losing both doctor and Lee. Sorry. No sale.

 _Think_ _, genius,_ he goaded himself. _Make it happen._

Looking around (and burning his face in the process) John spotted a sudden handy loop of yellow electrical wire, dangling down from that fractured ceiling. Good enough. He reached up against all that resistance, took hold of the sagging wires and hauled at them, hard.

Very obligingly, the stuff dropped right into his hands in warm, looping coils. Heavier than it looked, and more of it too. Maybe he should've asked questions, but exhaustion and nerves made that sort of hard.

He knew how to lasso, of course. No self-respecting horseman could fail to learn a few rope tricks, out on a ranch. Work of a moment to fashion a good slipknot and noose, then sling it (in drifting slow motion) over the doctor's outstretched right arm. Pulled the lasso tight and began hauling in, but it wasn't just the man's weight he was fighting. It was inertia, slowed time and that mud-like, stubborn d*mn air.

John pulled like a stevedore, like _his_ life depended on bringing in Shiro, and not just the doctor's. Had to be careful, or risk breaking the man's wrist. Drag too hard, and he'd take that hand right off. Meanwhile, bit by bit, the tide of debris was beginning to move, again.

He got the job done eventually, stowing Shiro right beside Rigby, and the wire… Well, inexplicably, John kept the stuff, coiling it back up as a loop across shoulder and chest. Then, with the clock slowed down by a friend giving all that he had, John started for Captain Taylor.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Far away, in time and space-_

She was tiny, again. Small enough to be carried and shoved into a hole by her calm and beautiful mother.

"Quiet now, Little One. Not a sound, not a movement," Momma whispered, dragging something heavy over that small, dusty hole. "Papa is with us, and all shall be well."

Those words rang in her mind as well as her ears, keeping Tanusha from making noise. She'd seen her father, as well, holding only a pole for a weapon as he paced back and forth between family and door. Something was coming. They… they'd been escaping, and now they were caught.

 _'No!'_ she wanted to scream. _'Momma, please! I can help!'_ Only, the past would not change its implacable flow, as that door was torn loose from its hinges and hurled aside to clatter and squeal against uneven stone. A blast of cold air swirled within, along with a flood of cyborg assassins.

Tanusha had lived through it all once, as a very small child. The energy-bursts and guttural cries. The final few shrieks and spattering blood, dripping through cracks in the cover and onto her upturned face. Their deaths, like an explosion of darkness, inside of her mind. Tanusha could not cry out or gasp. Couldn't pray, the way Grandma had tried to show her. Only shiver, as the killers turned from the headless bodies of Momma and Papa, to seek _her._ Keeping still would do no good at all, for they possessed scanners. Beams of red light swept the chamber. First the walls, and then floor.

Though adult in mind, Kay could do nothing; not against the compulsion of silence and stillness put on her by Momma. They would find her, and she would die; caught and torn like a desperate kitten, tossed among savage curs.

 _'No…'_ she raged, fighting for control of her huddled small body. _"I am… a…_ _Tracy_ _!'_

And then...


End file.
